


It's A Hard Life

by Krisdaughter_of_Athena



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU- Gang/Mafia and Police, Alternate Universe - Human, Attempted Murder, Aziraphale is a Detective Constable, Bombs, Corrupt Police Officers, Corruption, Crowley has been to prison, Crowley is a driver for Lucifer, Drinking, Drowning, Drunk characters, Explosions, First Kiss, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Good Omens Big Bang, Gun Violence, Love Confessions, Lucifer is a criminal overlord, Major character death - Freeform, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of sex work, Minor Character Death, Murder, Other, Pining, Smoking, Whistleblowers, Witchcraft, crowley has heterochromia, follows the show to an extent, on multiple occasions, the police actively target the poor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 78,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22521622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krisdaughter_of_Athena/pseuds/Krisdaughter_of_Athena
Summary: “Crawly” was the best delivery man in the whole city of London, and everyone knew it. Whether it be books and flowers, or narcotics and guns, Crawly was the one for the job. Easy enough for Crawly to slip in and out of tight spaces, and easy enough to keep his real name off the police radar.Detective Constable Aziraphale Pritchard is used to being told he is not very good at his job.  He is as surprised as everyone else when he is the officer to catch Crawly, the Devil’s infamous delivery driver, in the act. He is the only officer to figure out Crawly’s real name. But no one else knows that, otherwise they’d also know that the DC tends to get drunk with this particular member of the notorious Demons every other Thursday, and would also know of the fragile Arrangement between the two. Aziraphale knew it couldn’t last.However, what are the two to do when Crowley is given an extra special delivery, one which places the two unlikely allies alongside each other for the long haul? How will they keep the delicate balance of their arrangement from their respective sides? And how will they keep one boy from bringing destruction to the entirety of London?
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Bohemian Rhapsody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to It's a Hard Life, my piece for 2019-2020 Good Omens Big Bang! the The cover art is by my wonderful artist Cao! I hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 1- Bohemian Rhapsody**

_“Is this the real life?_

_Is this just fantasy?_

_Caught in a landslide,_

_No escape from reality.”_

**1989**

A ringing pulls him from his slumber. With a weary groan, he fumbles towards the sound, only to find it’s not his alarm clock (which, now that he considers it, was an absolutely ridiculous notion: owning an alarm clock), but his pager. He forces his eyes open to read the message on the tiny display. As he begins to wake up, his eyes widen as he reads and rereads the message, and he scrambles out of bed. 

“ _Shit shit shit_ !” He repeats to himself, stumbling in the dress from the night before. He looks down before quickly slipping out of it. It doesn't feel right, not anymore and oh _good god_ , he must have makeup smudged all over his face! He rushes over to the sink and groans as he grabs a cloth and begins to scrub away the mess. He pushes back his hair, biting back a grimace at the tangles. This is becoming more and more of a disaster!

When the makeup is finally off his face, he forces a brush through his hair, cursing and grunting in pain all the while. Finally, it meets his expectations and he scrambles for his fall-back leather pants, black shirt, and dark jacket. Hopefully it will be enough to convince his boss not to kill him on sight. He slips on his black shades to guard his expression and any flaws his eyes may show. God, he must have screwed up big time to get the Devil’s attention. 

He tries to keep his hands from shaking as he speeds through London. Was this going to be the last time he drove this car? Would this be his last morning? People who were called in for a private audience with the Devil, especially people low on the totem pole like _him_ , were never seen again. 

Of course, the only people to care about that would be his parole officer and himself. He didn’t have any parents to care for, no friends to meet at the bar after a job well done, no lover to climb into bed with after a long day…

Yeah, but that was all his own fault. And now, no one would care if his body was found at the bottom of the Thames. 

He parks in the back of the office building, like always. As he steps out, he glances up at the tower above. Today, he would be getting past the mail room, and making it all the way to the top. He looks back down to see the men in suits coming towards him at a brisk pace and closes the car door before turning to meet them. He tries (and fails) not to squawk when they grab him by the arms and begin to usher him to the elevator. Predictably, one of the guards presses the top button. The doors close without any other visitors and the three begin to rise. 

He fights the urge to squirm in the tight grip and crushing silence. His fingers twitch, wanting to reach to his pockets even though he won’t find his cigarettes there. _God_ , he needs a smoke.

The guards don’t spare him a glance, impassive thanks to their shades. He had shades, too, but well...he was too worried about dying to think about saving face. 

After what seems to be an excruciating amount of time, the elevator slows to a stop, and the doors ease open. The guards barely wait before forcing Crawly off towards the lone door at the end of the hallway. 

The door opens and Crawly is glad his shades cover his squinting eyes, as he can't fight the wince down. 

“Here he is, boss.” One of the guards shoves him forward, and he stumbles with a grunt. He steals a glance up, and immediately averts and bows his head. 

“Close the blinds. Then leave us.” The voice of Lucifer is smooth, like Crawly remembers. The guards did as instructed, the blinds lowering and the door shut. Crawly keeps his head down as the footsteps pad across the room. He tries not to flinch away when hands grab his glasses and pull them off his face.

“There we go.” Lucifer sounds satisfied, and Crawly steals a glance up to see the Devil himself set his shades upon the desk. His suit and hair are immaculate, and when his gaze returns, it pierces straight into Crawly. “Crawly, yes?”

Finding himself mute, he merely swallows and nods. Lucifer smiles in a way that subtly flashes his teeth before he slowly rounds his desk. “Do sit.”

Crawly steals a glance to the seat his boss gestures to before hurriedly obeying to sit, keeping his head down. This was a tricky game, and he was unsure what move would place him in checkmate in the trunk of someone’s car. For now, all he can do is play. 

Lucifer does not seem to notice his conflict as he pours himself a glass of whiskey. Or at least, Crawly doesn’t think he does, and is thus jarred when Lucifer says: “You can speak, you know.”

Despite feeling as if he is walking into a trap, he rasps. “I…” He breaks off and clears his throat. “Boss? Is there something wrong?” _Am I in trouble?_

“Wrong?” Lucifer chuckles as he strolls back to the desk. “No, not for you. In fact, I think you will benefit from this very nicely.”

“...Sir?”

“You remember Mammon, don’t you?” Lucifer is studying his drink, but steals a glance towards his audience, who squirms. 

“Yes, Sir.” He hates how weird ‘Sir’ sounds to him. “I heard he was arrested by the Commissioner herself. Is that true?” He dares to ask, and shrinks when Lucifer’s gaze snaps to him. Instead of striking Crawly down, he sighs, and returns to his drink.

“Yes. He was foolish to let the money go to his head, to let himself get caught.”

“I’m sure he will remain loyal, and reveal nothing.”

“Of course he will! He will be taken care of quickly enough to ensure that we won’t have to worry about him spilling any secrets of mine.” Crawly stiffens, and goes quiet, so Lucifer continues. “However, this does leave me with an opening for a new driver. Mammon took care of my personal errands and deliveries well enough, but he began to get sloppy. _You_ , however…” He sets down his drink and instead pulls up a file. He opens it, and shows Crawly the mugshots inside. “This is you, isn’t it?”

Crawly steals a glance to his photo before averting his gaze and nodding. Lucifer hums, and reexamines the files. 

“...Well, it is not exactly the most _impressive_ list I’ve seen. However, your supervisors say that you are one of the fastest and cleanest drivers; the police don’t even know what you’re doing.” He frowns at the file, “What does your parole officer think you’re doing?”

Crawly shrugs minutely. “He’s never come by like he’s supposed to.”

“Hm. Must be one of ours.” Lucifer murmurs, giving the file a final look before sighing and setting it down. “I have a job for you. Do this without a hitch, and you’re promoted. Higher pay, mileage is provided, and increased protection...we’ll keep that identity of yours under wraps and let you use that name, shall we?” He gives Crawly a shark-like grin before it disappears and he straightens. “Now, it is vital that this makes it to its address without so much as being jostled. And it’ll be in your best interest to not peek inside. Understand?”

He doesn’t give Crawly the chance to stutter out an answer as he crosses to a table across the room. Gently, he lifts a basket off the table, before crossing back and holding it out. Cautiously, Crawly rises and takes the basket with a trembling hand. Lucifer’s gaze is piercing as he lets go of the basket. 

“The address is on the slip of paper at the top of the basket, along with the rest of your instructions. If you fail to deliver, or get caught...well, I’m sure you and Mammon would get along just fine.” He lifts his glass, but steals a glance to the underling. “Got it?”

Crawly opens his mouth to find he doesn’t have a voice. He clamps his mouth shut, and instead rapidly nods. 

“Good.” Lucifer takes a sip of his drink, before waving him off. “You can leave.”

Crawly feels like a bobble head as he nods again, backing towards the door. He grips the basket tight as he turns the knob and slips out. 

* * *

It takes nearly an hour through traffic to get to the drop-off. He slows to a stop in front of a small house before exhaling deeply. He parks and retrieves the slip of paper, checking the address. Everything matches up accordingly, but Crawly had expected to be led to some rundown shack in the slums. He should have remembered that this street would take him to the higher classes, to this simple house that squats among those that tower. 

Crawly sets his jaw and turns off the engine. He slips out first, before rounding to the other side of his beloved Bentley and opening the passenger door to retrieve the basket. He still handles it gingerly, as if it might blow up. Had he not been so focused on crossing the street without shaking the basket, he might have taken a look at his surroundings. If he had, he would have seen the man sitting in a parked car just down the street, who is now pulling out a camera, and snapping photos of him as he crosses. 

But he doesn’t, concentrating on his feet taking the steps up to the porch before finding himself on the welcome mat. His weight shifts back and forth, as if considering either wiping his feet or turning tail, but he decides against both. With a deep breath, he rings the doorbell and steps back. The seconds seem to crawl by before finally the door opens. 

Her dark eyes seem to smile in mirth from whatever had just happened inside the house. However, when she looks to him, her smile fades from her mouth and her eyes into something more cautious. “...Hello?”

He spares any attempts at a greeting, fearing his voice will shake if he says too much. “Delivery.” He holds out the basket to her. She glances down to it, then up to him. 

“What is it?” She finally asks, and pushes back the fabric covering the top before gasping. Crawly stiffens and steals a glance down to see her face is one of confusion. 

“Apples?”

“ _Apples_?” He repeats softly, before recovering. “Yes, yes! I’m from...Eden’s Apples, the sweetest and juiciest apples in the UK!”

“But I didn’t order any apples…” She turns back, calling into the house. “Adam-?”.

“My boss sent them!” He says hurriedly. She turns back to him, so he paints a simple grin that would scream sincerity. “Complementary gift. It’s a random giveaway, as a startup for our company. All that we ask is that you take them and tell your friends about Eden’s Apples.” 

“Babe?” Crawly stiffens when he hears a second voice. A man, supposedly Adam, steps up behind the woman. “Is something wrong?” He looks up at Crawly with a look of suspicion. “Who are you?” 

Oh...he doesn’t like that look on their faces; they’re catching on too fast. Quickly, he scoops up one of the apples and holds it out to the woman. “Why don’t you try one yourself?”

The woman steals a glance to the apple, which turns into a longing look at the dark red skin of the fruit.

“Eve.” She glances back to Adam, who shakes his head. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Her brow furrows, but she takes the apple anyways. She turns it over in her hands, as if examining for any blemishes. She must be satisfied with the condition, for she raises it to her lips and takes a crunching bite. Crawly grips the basket for dear life as he watches Eve for a reaction beyond her closed eyelids. She hums, and when she opens her eyes again, she grins. 

“These are amazing!” She turns to her husband and holds out the apple. “Try this!”

He looks to her, as if he wanted to say no. However, he can’t seem to refuse, so he takes the apple from her and takes a bite. His eyes open after a long second and he grins as well. He glances to Eve, before looking to Crawly. “We’ll take the whole basket. ”

Crawly tries not to let out a sigh of relief as he relaxes and lets loose a cocky grin. He passes it over without a word, and they accept it easily.

“Thank you for the apples.” Eve smiles at Crawly, who tries to hide the shiver down his spine at the odd familiarity of her smile that he just can’t place, then looks to her husband. “I bet your mother’s apple pie recipe would make good use of these.”

Before Crawly can ask any of his questions (such as _How do I know you and your husband?_ or _This isn’t going to end badly after all? ),_ they shut the door, leaving Crawly standing and blinking stupidly. It takes a moment to snap himself out of the reverie, and he immediately hurries down the porch steps and across the street. In fact, he doesn’t stop until he is practically leaning against the Bentley in order to stay upright. It takes a long moment to get his legs to stop shaking and threatening to collapse underneath him, but when he does, he looks back to the house.

“That was too close.” He says out loud to himself. They were suspicious of him for so much of that conversation, he wasn’t sure they would accept the basket. 

“And yet they did.” He reminds himself, finally feeling stable. He pushes off the car and smoothes down his jacket with a deep breath. “That wasn’t so bad.”

And then the house explodes.

The force knocks him into the side of his car, glasses flying off his face and skidding. He doesn’t even take stock of himself, whipping around to where the house was standing just moments before, seeing the blown glass and the door. Fire consumes the inner structure, racing up the porch.

“ _No…”_ Crawly breathes, eyes wide in horror. Those weren’t just apples...they were _bombs_.

A car door slams, but Crawly can’t tear his gaze away from the fire until a voice calls, “Hey!”

He starts and his head snaps to the owner of the voice. The man in a light suit jacket and trousers produces something out of his coat. It pulls back and Crawly’s eyes catch the gun at his waist before snapping up to meet his piercing and pained gaze. 

“Scotland Yard!” The man calls, wallet unfolding to show his identification. “You’re going to have to come with me.” 

This shakes Crawly back into the present, into the fact that the fire is burning the side of his face, and that this officer can see everything and is now reaching for his handcuffs. 

With a sharp gasp, he lunges for his shades across the front of his car, before pushing off and reaching for his car door. 

“Hey!” Crawly ignores the plainclothes officer as he slips in and pulls the door shut. Cursing under his breath, he jams the keys into the ignition and starts the engine. It struggles for a long second as through the windshield, the officer pulls out his gun and begins to approach. 

“C’mon, c’mon start…” He begs with a lump in his throat as he turns the key again. The engine turns over and Crawly nearly sobs in relief as he shifts into drive and presses on the gas. The officer is forced to dive out of the way in order to avoid the Bentley as it surges forward, barely swerving around the officer’s car in the process. Gunshots ring out and Crawly ducks as some crack through the rear windshield, only to curse as he feels the back left tire give out from another shot. He stomps the gas down and the Bentley protests at the loss of a tire, but accelerates. He zooms past the police cars at the end of the street, whipping around the corner as they realize their suspect just passed them. By the time they turn around, he’s long gone. 

* * *

Lucifer turns off the television as Crawly shuts the door behind him. Lucifer turns his office chair to face him with a grin.

“I just saw the news. Wonderful job, Crawly.” He crosses to his alcohol cabinet, and pulls out a bottle of champagne. He pops the cork with a small laugh and watches as it fizzes over before fetching two glasses. He pours both before crossing to where Crawly is still standing, shades covering his gaze. He hands one to Crawly, who accepts it after a short pause. 

“To us.” Lucifer toasts. “And to the Commissioner. Without her, none of this would be possible.” He clinks their glasses and takes a sip. As a courtesy, Crawly lifts his own glass and quietly downs his glass. The Devil ignores it.

“Your payment is in the envelope on the desk. Leave your car here and we will repair it. I will contact you for your next job.”

“Yes, boss.” Crawly says finally, trying very hard to only look ahead. Lucifer ignores it and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I think this partnership will work just nicely.” He squeezes Crawly’s shoulder, and lets his hand remain for a long moment, before letting go. Crawly doesn’t react, so Lucifer waves him off. “You may go.”

Crawly nods, reaching forward for his envelope before giving a nod and making himself scarce. The fizz of champagne bubbles in his stomach as it knots, and he knows tonight he will be downing harder drinks until he can’t even remember his own name.


	2. Another One Bites the Dust

**Chapter 2- Another One Bites the Dust**

“ _ How do you think I’m gonna get along _

_ Without you when you’re gone?  _

_ Took me for everything that I had  _

_ And kicked me out on my own! _

_ Are you happy? _

_ Are you satisfied? _

_ How long can you stand the heat?  _

_ Out of the doorway the bullets rip _

_ To the sound of the beat.  _

_ Look out!”  _

**11 years ago- 2008**

Two men lurk at the edge of the graveyard, seemingly slinking out of the night. One paces, as his partner watches. Finally, the man stops and lights a cigarette, the only light in the night.

“Bugger this for a lark.” He grunts after taking a drag, white and grey muddled hair falling near his eyes. He ignores it with a sullen glare. “He should have been waiting for us.”

His partner, called Ligur, simply nods in understanding. He is the quieter of the two, bundled in a disheveled coat where the collar folded up at his jaw. His dark eyes watch his partner carefully. “You trust him?”

The first man, named Hastur, takes another drag. “Nope.”

“Good. It’d be a funny old world if Demons went around trusting each other, even a pet of the Boss.” Hastur merely grunts as he continues to smoke. “What’s his name anyway?”

Hastur puffs out smoke and grinds out: “ _ Crawly. _ ”

Music blares in the distance, but both men ignore it for the moment. Hastur stomps out his cigarette and sighs.

“Is he really close to the Boss?” Ligur asks.

“He’s his personal driver. Has been for years now. Doesn’t mean  _ he can be late _ .”

The music grows as two lights turn into the graveyard. The car, a black Bentley, rolls to a stop, before the brake activates and the engine dies.

“Here he comes now, the flash bastard. If you ask me, he’s gotten too comfy.” The door slams, and a man saunters out. “Enjoys himself too much, eating out of the hand of the Boss. Wearing sunglasses even when he doesn’t need them…”

“Uh, hi guys.” Crawly lifts a hand in greeting. “Sorry I’m late, but you know how it is on the A40 at Denham. I-I tried to cut up towards Chorleywood-“

“Now that we are all here,” Hastur interrupts him, “let us recount the deeds of the day.”

“Of course.” Crawly grits his teeth, red hair bobbing back and forth at his shoulder. He grits his teeth. “Deeds, yeah.”

“I have won over a priest.” Hastur begins. “I showed him all the pretty girls of the city, all that he could have if he helped us alongside the other chaplins and nuns that have joined us. He is considering, but I’m certain he will come crawling back to us.”

The men chuckle, and Crawly nods with a grin, “Yeahhh, nice one.”

“I have a corrupted a politician.” Ligur announces. “Convinced him that a tiny bribe wouldn’t hurt. This will benefit us in the upcoming legislation.”

Crawly nods again. “Right, you’ll like this. I brought down  _ every  _ London area mobile phone network tonight.”

The other men go silent as Crawly stands there, grinning. Hastur finally shrugs, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t easy-“

“What exactly has that done to forward the plans of our master?”

“Well come on, think about it!” Crawly laughs. “Fifteen  _ million _ pissed-off people who take it out on each other. Cause chaos, gives enough distraction for all our  _ other  _ plans to pass easily without being caught.”

“It’s not exactly…” Ligur hums and smirks, “craftsmanship.”

“Well, Boss don’t seem to mind. He loves me, guys. Times are changing. So…” He sniffs. “What’s up?”

Hastur remains impassive. “This is.” He glances over as Ligure holds up a basket for Crawly to see.

Crawly stares at it for a long moment. If the other two were able to see his eyes, they would see wide-eyed horror. “No.”

“Yes.” Ligur replies.

Crawly stares at it for a moment longer, before looking to them, tensing. “Already?”

Hastur steps forward, taking pleasure in seeing Crawly squirm. “ _ Yes. _ ”

“And it’s up to me to…?”

Both nod. “Yes.”

Ligur holds out the basket, and Crawly steps back. “You know, listen, it…i-it” He stammers, “…really isn’t my scene.”

“Your scene.” Ligur argues calmly. “Your starring role.  _ Take it _ .”

Crawly hesitates, so Hastur responds. “Like you said, times are changing.”

“They come to an end, for a start.” Ligur adds.

“ _ Why me? _ ” Crawly nearly whines.

“Well, the Boss loves you.” Hastur parrots back to him. “And what an opportunity! Ligur here would give his right arm to be you tonight.”

Ligur’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Or someone’s right arm, anyway.”

Hastur produces a clipboard. “Sign here.”

Crawly stares at it for a long moment, before picking up the pin and quickly signing his identification number before tossing the pen away. Hastur puts the clipboard away, and for a long moment the three stand there.

“…Now what?”

Hastur hands him a small device. “You will be contacted this way to receive your instructions.” He notices the look on Crawly’s face. “And why so glum?”

“Our moment of triumph awaits.” Ligur adds.

“Triumph…” Crawly echoes.

“And you,” Hastur continues, “will be a tool of that glorious destiny.”

“Glorious…tool…yeah.” Crawly stares down at the basket, before sighing. “Okay.” He takes the basket, “I’ll, um, be off then. Get it over with.” He realizes what he said, and fumbles. “No, I want to get it over with, obviously, but I’ll be popping along.”

Hastur and Ligur merely stare at him. 

“Great.” Crawly’s voice sounds strained. “Fine. Yeah.” He takes a deep breath and begins to saunter away with the basket. “ _ Ciao! _ ” He calls back once he’s certain they can no longer see his expression. 

“What’s that mean?” He hears Ligur ask Hastur. 

“ _ Ciao _ .” Hastur responds. “It’s Italian. It means ‘food’.”

Crawly bites back a sigh as he slides the basket in the back seat before climbing in front. He cannot believe he is working with people without  _ culture!  _ He went to jail at just seventeen, and he still knew basic Italian!

But it’s ridiculous for him to fuss over that. Apparently, he now has bigger things to worry about. So he turns on the engine and lets  _ Bohemian Rhapsody _ wash over him until he is far away from the other Demons. 

Crawly had been well aware of Lucifer’s plan. After all, he was there at the beginning, when the death of the Winsletts created an all out war between Scotland Yard and Lucifer’s Demons. He knew that his boss planned to win, even at the cost of the destruction of London. He just didn’t expect it to happen so soon, or that he would still be alive in order to be chosen to set everything into motion. 

“Shit shit shit  _ shit shit shit!”  _ He nearly slams the small device against the steering wheel as he works to activate it with one hand. Doesn’t mean he can’t seethe. “ _ Why me?” _

With a small beep, the device activates, and a familiar smooth voice begins from it, causing Crawly to turn down his radio. “ _ You certainly earned this, didn’t you, Crawly? Each of your deliveries have been a stroke of demonic  _ genius _ , darling. Consider this a handsome reward for your hard work these past twenty years. My infallible driver.  _

_ Here are your instructions. This is the big one, Crawly.” _

Crawly’s mouth feels dry as he listens to his careful instructions for the next eleven years. How in  _ heaven _ was he going to pull any of this off? 

A horn blares, and Crawly’s gaze shoots up to meet blinding headlights. His breath barely hitches as he swerves back into his lane. He overcorrects and nearly barrels off the road, so he brings the steering wheel back. Before he can go any further, he yanks the emergency brake and screeches to an immediate stop. The force pushes, then pulls him back as his head hits the seat. In the silence, Crawly can only catch his breath, on the emergency brake. Once he realizes that he is in fact  _ not dead _ , he scrambles out of the car to pace the road, hands tangling in his hair.

“Oh  _ fuck. _ ” He pace back and forth, hyperventilating. “I’m in deep,  _ deep shit! _ There’s no getting out of this one.”

He stops pacing at the low whine. He turns back to the car as the whine turns into a shrill cry. He slowly approaches the back of the Bentley as the screaming continues. His hands press against the glass as he peers into the window, at the small figure swaddled in the basket….

* * *

The sushi chef lifts the platter of sushi onto the countertop. _ ‘Here is the selection of your favorite sushi rolls, my dear Aziraphale-san’. _

The man on the other side of the counter, named Aziraphale, beams down at the platter before turning his grin to the chef. ‘ _ Thank you chef, that’s very kind of you. _ ’ He gives a small bow of thanks as the chef leaves him. He turns his full attention to the plate and inhales a deep waft of the sushi. He hums closing his eyes and relaxing. What a perfect night to have to oneself, to indulge in life’s pleasures…

The door sings open and slams shut, and Aziraphale snaps out of his stupor. He looks to his left, only to find no one. Then, he looks to the right just in time to see a familiar man lean against the counter. “Mind if I join you?”

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale’s captain gives a tight grin at his name. “What an unexpected pleasure. It’s been…”

“Quite a while, yes.” His gaze wanders from his subordinate to the platter of sushi. His nose wrinkles, and he points to it. “Why do you eat that? It seems...disgusting.”

Aziraphale looks down to it, then back up to his captain in confusion. “It’s sushi.” Gabriel makes a face of disgust. “It’s nice. You dip it in soy sauce…” When Gabriel’s expression doesn’t change, he tries a different approach. “It’s, uh, keeping up appearances. Integrating into society so it’s easier to…have an ear to the ground.” He steals a glance to the teapot. “Tea?”

“I would not get attached too much longer.”

Aziraphale looks up at that. “What do you mean?”

“We have reliable information that  _ things… _ are afoot.”

He tries to remain nonchalant in the face of his boss. “They are?”

“My informant suggests that the Demon….Crawly may be involved?” Gabriel continues despite the fact that Aziraphale can no longer look at him. He thinks nothing of it. “We need to track him down. Keep him under observation, without, of course, letting him know that’s what you’re doing.”

“I do know, yes.” Aziraphale says firmly but softly, “I have been doing this for years now.”

“So has Crawly.” Gabriel points out. Aziraphale gives a tight, humorless, smile. “It’s a miracle he hasn’t noticed you’ve been on his trail yet.” He pats a hand on his shoulder with a chuckle. “I’m sure you can handle something this simple.” And with that, Gabriel leaves again. Aziraphale watches him leave, before his polite smile fades into something more solemn. He stares at the platter, no longer hungry. He gently pushes it away, before resting his elbows on the counter. He runs his hands over his face.

_ What trouble has Crawly stirred up this time? _

* * *

**1989**

Detective Constable Aziraphale Pritchard rubs his eyes as he slumps forward on his desk. The bullpen, usually bustling with activity, is subdued and nearly empty at this time. Everyone is on high alert, either rushing to protect the Commissioner's home, or on the search for the bomber. Gabriel, his captain, had sent him back to the office. 

_ ‘I can help!’ Aziraphale had protested, covered in soot and reloading his gun. Those bullets had pierced the perpetrator’s windshield and tires but emptied his gun. Gabriel stopped his wrist from reaching for more bullets.  _

_ ‘Detective, I’m ordering you to return to the station.’ He’s firm; always no-nonsense, but the dying flames cut into the shadows on his face, haunting his expression. ‘You can work on a description of the suspect, but I forbid you from joining a patrol of any sort tonight. You’re too shaken to think clearly.’ _

And perhaps he was. He hadn’t even cleaned the soot off his face or hands and he still smelled of smoke. But the sketch sits in front of him, complete except for the eyes. He rubs his face, scrunching his eyes closed in concentration. In his mind’s eye, he can see the bomber’s eyes when they had first met his own. Both brown and blue pupils were wide like a cornered animal, pleading something unspoken, something Aziraphale couldn’t read…

Sighing, he pushes away from his desk and begins to pace. His memory was perfect; he could remember every detail of the bomber. So why did he struggle to create a description…?

He shakes his head, and stops in his pacing to look at his desk. His gaze examines the incomplete drawing for a long moment, before his eyes wander to the other objects on his desk. The stapler that needed to be refilled, the pens and pencils scattered across his desk, and the clunky computer he barely ever touches gathering dust….

_ Wait.  _

He hurries back to the hunk of tech, forcefully pressing the on button. His foot taps incessantly as the old thing hums and starts up. Finally, the screen lights up and Aziraphale plops down as he leans over the keyboard. His brow furrows as he moves the mouse to the search bar, and painstakingly punches each letter. 

‘ _ H-E-T-E-R-O-C-H-R-O-M-A-T-I-C’ _

He hits enter and taps his knuckles against the top of the desk as the computer hums and makes slow work. He works his bottom lip as each second drags on. This better work…

Finally, the search results edge their way onto the screen and Aziraphale lets his air escape as he retakes control. The bomber probably already has a criminal record, so he will be on the database somewhere. 

Despite what Aziraphale knows, it still takes hours of searching. By the time he stumbles across the record, his eyes burn and his back aches from hunching over the keyboard. All of that is forgotten in an instant as he scans the screen. 

‘ _ NAME: ANTHONY JAY CROWLEY _

_ DOB: 11 JUNE, 1970 _

_ HAIR: RED _

_ EYE: HETEROCHROMATIC _

_ RECORD: THEFT, AGGRAVATED VEHICLE TAKING (2 YEARS), ON PAROLE’ _

He can’t help the small gasp of shock, and the smile of relief that lights up his face in the dark room. This was their bomber!

He pulls out his notepad to write down his name, and scrolls down for his address and parole officer’s phone number. He slumps back, and runs a hand through his unkempt hair _.  _

“I need to show this to Gabriel.” He says finally, and that sets him into motion. He reaches back across for his phone, and punches in his captain’s number. His fingers tap the paper on the desk as the line rings. 

“ _ Detective Pritchard _ .” Gabriel greets. “ _ Did you finish the description of the suspect _ ?”

Aziraphale blinks hard in surprise. “W-well no, but I did find-”

“ _ Then why did you call? _ ” The captain cuts him off. “ _ I told you to get that description if you wanted to help at all _ .”

“But-”

“ _ Why don’t you go home _ ?” Aziraphale goes silent, mouth dry, so Gabriel sighs after a moment. “ _ Listen...you’ve had a rough night, and maybe it was too much to expect you to put something simple like a description together. Tell you what: come in early tomorrow and we’ll get it done so we can send out a bulletin.” _

Aziraphale swallows the lump in his throat. “Yes sir.”

“ _ Good.” _ And the line goes dead. 

Aziraphale sighs, and returns the phone to it’s latch. He rubs his eyes, before looking to the paper. ‘ANTHONY’ stares back up at him. 

What could he do? Gabriel wasn’t going to listen to him. He couldn’t get clearance without going through his captain. He’s cornered, with no right path. 

So, he folds the paper up into a small square and slips it into his trouser pocket. He flicks the lamp at his desk off before running a hand through his hair with a sigh. He needs a drink, more than anything. 

A drink, yes. That should clear his mind, help him find the answer to this problem. 

* * *

The bar’s dim lighting gives off an oddly festive glow for all that has happened in the day. By now, the whole city should know and be on edge. Sure enough, there only seem to be a few stragglers in the bar as Aziraphale slips in, face clean and hands stuffed in his pockets. The music is faint and every patron seems to be only present to find the bottom of their glasses, so the dominating noise is the chatter of the television above the bar. Even then, Aziraphale feels a weight in the tension increase as he crosses and slipps onto a bar stool. 

_ “Thank you Janice. Our next story: police have been called to the site of an explosion in the suburbs of London-” _

“What’ll it be?” The bartender asks. Aziraphale blinks away from the screen. 

“Uh, glass of brandy if you don’t mind.” 

The bartender nods, and begins to pour the drink. 

_ “After investigating the scene of the crime, Metropolitan Police confirms that the bodies found inside belong to Adam and Eve Winslett, son and daughter-in-law to Commissioner Winslett. Though their bodies have been found, their children were not in the home at the time of the explosion-” _

“Turn tha’ off!” A voice slurs loudly down the bar. 

“Sorry about him.” The bartender apologizes to him. “I’ll quiet him down.”

Aziraphale nods, and watches the bartender go to the man hunched at the end of the bar with a glass of water. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to sober up-”

“Turn theh program off!” The man protests again, long,  _ red hair  _ falling in his face. He pushes it aside, only for it to fall back. “Put on football or somethin’...anythin’...”

The bartender sighs. “Fine. But sober up.” 

The man grumbles at that, but says nothing more. The bartender reaches up and changes the channel to some game replay before walking off. The man sighs, pushing up his dark tinted glasses to rub his eyes before they slide back down again. 

Aziraphale’s staring. He knows who he is, but it couldn’t be  _ this easy _ . Out of all the bars in all of London, he couldn’t have possibly ended up at the same one as  _ Anthony Jay Crowley _ , currently London’s most dangerous suspect. 

He needs to act now. Evacuate the entire bar in case the man has another bomb on him. 

But wait. How can he be sure that this is even his suspect? If he raises the alarm like this, only for it not to be the bomber, Gabriel would have his head. 

No, he needed to remain calm. Collected. Cool. 

He needed to get this man out of the bar. But how? 

Deception? It would be difficult, especially since the suspect had seen his face. However, if he was truly and utterly pissed, perhaps he wouldn’t recognize Aziraphale at all. 

“Right.” Aziraphale mutters to himself more than anyone else as he shrugs off his coat, his vest, and loosens his tie. He grabs his glass and downs the remains of his brandy before licking his lips. “Here goes nothing.”

* * *

**2008- Tadfield, Oxfordshire**

Arthur Young peers into the dark, hunched near the steering wheel. Next to him, his very pregnant wife nearly sobs, clutching her middle.

“Are we there yet, Arthur?” Diedre moans, hand rubbing her swollen belly as if to stop the contractions. “I’m four minutes apart!”

He sighs, eyes narrowing as he searches the dark road. “It’s definitely this way. It’s just the roads look all different in the dark.”

Her head lolls to the side. “The nuns said to come in when they were four to five minutes apart!”

Arthur tries to not lose his temper, instead distracting himself as police sirens gain on them. He pulls over to the side of the road, and watches as a policeman on a motorcycle escorts an ambulance down the same road into the dark.

* * *

Harriet Dowling’s shriek drowns out any noise within the ambulance. She was still dressed in her evening best. The paramedic tries to lay her back down, and two security guards hold a computer screen and a camera over her.

“Breathe, honey.” Her husband, American diplomat Thaddeus Dowling, says through the screen, voice digital. “Just breathe!”

She stops screaming, and sucks in a breath. She speaks through gritted teeth, American accent bleeding through. “I  _ am  _ breathing, goddamn it, Tad! Why aren’t you here?”

“Honey, I’m with you.” He says nearly desperately, as if she would snap at him (which she might). “I’m with you. I’m just also here with the President.”

On the screen, U.S. President George Bush leans over from behind Thaddeus, and Harriet brushes her hair back, and plasters a fake smile on her face. “Hey, Harriet. Sorry we had to borrow your husband.”

She cannot hold back the pain anymore and screams as another contraction rips through her.

“Birth is the single most joyous co-experience that two human beings can share,” Thaddeus says over her screams, “and I’m not going to miss a second of it!”

“Tad,” His attention is pulled away by the president, “if we could get back to the matter at hand.”

He looks back to his wife, “I’ll get back to you honey.” He then turns off the camera.

Harriet nearly sobs in frustration. “You’re meant to be with  _ me _ , you useless son of a bi-!”

* * *

“At some point this evening, Mrs. Dowling will arrive.” The Mother Superior of the convent begins her speech in front of the throng of nuns, which were overlooked by a statue of a man fighting a giant serpent, the symbol of evil. “She will undoubtedly have Secret Service agents with her. You are all to ensure that they see nothing untoward.

“Sister Theresa and I will deliver the Dowlings’ child in room four.” Sister Theresa looks around and smirks with un-nunlike pride. Mother Superior turns to the board behind her, which depicts a silhouette of a baby and a woman. Once he has been born, we will remove the baby boy from the mother…” She removes the baby from the board, before picking up another shape and showing it to the nuns, “and give her back our benefactor’s child.” The baby, quite humorously, had little devil horns growing off its head, and she hangs it next to the woman.

This gathers a collection of excited expressions and scattered whispers. Everyone knew of their mysterious benefactor. The convent had struggled in Tadfield, and if it had not been for their benefactor, they would have closed and been forced to relocate years ago. So what if their benefactor chose to be referred to as ‘ruler of demons’ and asked for favors that definitely broke their vow, and definitely were illegal? The money was more than enough for the nuns to live a comfortable life.

“Everything is ready. Tonight, it begins.” Mother Superior looks over as one nun raises her hand. Her smile fades for a fraction of a second, before she forces a polite one back. “Sister Mary Loquacious?”

“Yes, excuse me, Mother Superior.” Sister Mary Loquacious’ voice was small and hurried. “I was wondering where the other baby was going to come from? Uh, not the American baby. I mean, that’s obvious. It’s just the birds and the bees. But you know, the, um…” She raises her eyebrows to convey her meaning.

Mother Superior seems unimpressed. “Master Crawly is on his way with our dark lord-to-be, Sister Mary.” She calls the baby by the given codename by the ruler of demons, the so-called ‘antichrist’. “We do not need to know more than that.” Sister Mary Loquacious bows her head at that, and Mother Superior continues.

“We are nuns of the Chattering Order of St. Beryl. And tonight is what our order was set up for!”

Whispers race among the nuns as Mother Superior pulls out a list.

“Sister Grace, you are on duty reception. Sisters Maria Verbose and Katherine Prolix, you will assist Sister Theresa. The rest of you know your duties.”

In the distance, sirens can now be heard, and the voices of the nuns rise in volume.

“Places!” Mother Superior announces, and the nuns all rush off.

Well, all except one.

“Excuse me, Mother Superior.” Mother Superior looks to Sister Mary Loquacious. “I didn’t get a job. P-probably an oversight.”

Mother Superior’s expression doesn’t change. “Yes, of course.” She thinks for a moment. “You could make sure there are biscuits. The kind with pink icing. I think we had a tin in the convent larder.”

Sister Mary Loquacious smiles and rushes off eagerly to her job. Mother Superior watches her go, before letting her expression drop with a frustrated sigh. This was going to be a long night.


	3. Killer Queen

**Chapter 3- Killer Queen**

“ _ Drop of a hat _

_ She’s as willing as  _

_ Playful as a pussy cat _

_ Then momentarily out of action  _

_ Temporarily out of gas _

_ To absolutely drive you wild, _

_ Wild, _

_ She’s out to get you.”  _

**T** **hat same night- 2008**

‘ _ It’s A Hard Life’ _ blares over the radio as Crowley speeds down the country road. The child had finally fallen back asleep about 20 minutes ago. Freddie Mercury’s voice wails over the guitars as the entrance of the hospital comes into sight. A man standing in front of the door covers his gaze as Crowley rolls to a stop. He kills the engine and retrieves the basket before slamming the car door shut.

The man lowers his pipe as Crowley saunters towards him. “Oh, you must the doctor! I’m relieved the nuns were able to get hold of you-“

The man’s words go in one of Crowley’s ears, and out of the other, but he still turns to him. “Has it started yet?”

“Um…” he fumbles for words, and gestures to the door with his pipe. “They made me go out.”

Unhelpful. Crowley shakes his head, brow furrowed. “Any idea how long we got?”

“Well, I think we were getting along with it, doctor.”

“Got it.” He begins to turn away. “What room is she in?”

“Um, we’re in room three.”

“Room three, got it.” He pushes the door open, letting the door hit the wall as he hurries down the hall. No nuns are in sight, and he resists the urge to grit his teeth. Of course, this wouldn’t be easy.

He slips through the halls, sticking close to the shadows. According to the plans, the Dowlings should be the only ones present, but the place is still going to be crawling with American agents.

Fortunately, it does not take long for him to find a nun. She’s walking down the hall, alone, and all it takes is a small hiss before her attention snaps to the shadows where he hides. He slinks out of the shadows, holding out the basket for her. She slowly approaches, and gives him a small curtsey. He cocks an eyebrow at that, and she quickly straightens, and takes the basket. She sets the tin down, before cautiously lifting the lid of the basket. Inside, the baby is still sleeping, and she gasps in awe. At that, he slowly opens his eyes, and she laughs.

“Is that him?” She asks, glancing up to Crowley.

“Yup.” Crowley hasn’t moved.

She steals another glance at the child. “Only I’d expected funny eyes, or-“ she peeks closer- “teensy-weensy liitle hoofikins. Or a wittle tail.”

Crowley resists the urge to scrunch his nose or curl his lip. Heaven, was this nun  _ stupid _ ? “It’s definitely him.”

She looks up to him, “Fancy me holding the son of our benefactor.” She giggles. “Counting his little toesie-woesies.”

This time Crowley does curl his lip and shakes his head while she’s looking down at the baby.

“Do you look like your daddy?” The baby merely coos and does not answer the nun’s babytalk. “I bet he does. Do you look like your daddy-waddykins?”

“He doesn’t.” Crowley says bluntly, itching to take the nearest door out of the convent. He never liked churches, or convents for that matter. “Take him up to room three.”

“Room three.” She repeats, and looks up to him as he passes. “Do you think he’ll remember me when he grows up?”

“Pray that he doesn’t.” Is all he says as he pushes open the door, merely humoring her so he could disappear. He slips around the building to find the man who had been out front was gone. The Dowling child must have been born. But for now, it was no longer his problem.

* * *

Indeed, the Dowling child has been born. The nuns take the child and come back with another. Harriet is craning her neck, and smiles when she sees her son is being rolled into the room. “Ohh…”

Sister Theresa gently hands the baby back to Harriet. “Here’s your little man back, all cleaned up and weighed.”

Harriet takes the sleep baby back carefully as it begins to cry. She turns the child to the screen. “Look, honey. Our son.”

“He’s beautiful, hon. What a little tyke, huh?” Thaddeus laughs, before going quiet in thought. Finally, he speaks again. “Seeing him makes me understand what’s important in life.” He chuckles again, as everyone watches fondly. “It’s not work. I’m going to teach him to play baseball. And on Sunday’s, we’ll go fishing-“

“Tad!” President Bush calls from behind him, and Thaddeus stops.

“Sorry, honey. We’ll call you back.” He turns away from the screen, and the Secret Service agents turn off the screen. Harriet stares at the screen incredulously.

“You must name the child.” Mother Superior breaks Harriet’s reverie as she approaches.

Harriet looks down at who she assumes is her son. “Well, we were going to name him Thaddeus, after his dad, and his dad’s dad.”

“Damien’s an excellent name.” Mother Superior says stonily, exchanging a glance with Sister Theresa.

“Damien Dowling?” She shakes her head. “Too alliterative.”

Mother Superior pauses for a moment. “Warlock, then.” Harriet looks up to her at that. “It’s an old English name. A good name.”

The baby’s cries gather Harriet’s attention. She looks back to him, bouncing him. She smiles and leans forward as she coos: “Hello, Warlock.”

* * *

Only when Crowley is far enough from the convent does he dare say another word. He grabs his mobile phone and taps in a familiar number before putting the phone to his ear. “Come on…pick up, pick up…”

The beep is loud in his ear, and he flinches.

“ _ We’re sorry, all line to London are currently busy.” _

Crowley groans. Of course! His plans had bitten him right in the arse!

He sees a light in the distance. As he grows closer, he sees it is a lone phone box. Gritting his teeth, he pulls over next to it, and begins digging for coins. Looks like he was going to have to do this the hard way.

He hurries to the phone box with the coins before quickly punching in the number. He clings to the receiver as the line rings. Finally, the telephone connects, and a posh voice begins. “ _ I’m afraid we’re quite closed-“ _

“Aziraphale.” The voice goes silent at his words. “It’s me. We need to talk.”

He knows he doesn’t need to specify who he is. He imagines Aziraphale in his precious bookshop, demeanor of a fussy book dealer dropping to something solemn, something more like the detective he knew.

“Yes.” He says finally. “Yes, I rather think we do. I assume this is about-“

“Armageddon.” He finishes, looking out into the dark. “Yes.”

He knows that’s all he has to say as he hangs up and steps out of the phone box. He climbs back into the car with a sigh. That is all he can do for the night. For now, he would return to his apartment and finish off a bottle of wine by himself and maybe a cig or two.

* * *

**1989**

“You alright, mate?” The thick accent makes Crowley jump, along with the hand on his shoulder. He looks up to the...the  _ angel  _ above him. The light of the bar has framed their halo beautifully, but their face is hard to read. Well, actually, it’s hard to see  _ at all _ . 

“Ngk, yeah…” He swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Ya sure?” The angel sits next to him, hand still on his shoulder. “Seemed worked up over a silly old program.”

He chuckles nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s been a long day, you could say.”

“Ah, I feel ya.” The angel holds out his hand. “Name’s Fell.” 

“Fell?” He accepts the hand with a quirked eyebrow. “Quite a name. Got a first?” 

“Friends call me A.Z.” Fell adds, then puts his hand up. The bartender approaches. “Two shots of whiskey. Put it on my tab.”

“Right.” He glances to Crowley with a suspicion that makes his skin crawl. “I’ll bring the bottle.”

“Thanks.” Fell’s attention returns to Crowley as soon as the bartender leaves. He leans his chin into his hand with a small smirk. “Care to talk about your day, then?”

The bartender sets the shots down, and Crowley immediately takes his. “Nah. It’s not as entertaining as you may think.” He downs the shot. Fell matches his pace, and refills both their glasses. 

“Oh, I’m sure. Contracting is a pain in the arse these days.”

Crowley hums. “Tell me about it.”

Fell hums and takes another shot. This time, Crowley matches him, and they both set their glasses down. 

“So,” Fell continues, leaning in. Crowley can’t help but be aware of the inches between Fell’s soft looking lips and his own. “What do they call you?”

His breath hitches, and he can’t help but stare at his lips. “Crowley.”

“Crowley, hm?” Fell hums, smirking at his uncomfort, “Got a first name, Crowley, darling?”

‘Darling’ warms him from head to toe so fast he stutters before he can think. “A-anthony.”

Fell grins. “What a beautiful name.” 


	4. Fat Bottomed Girls

**Chapter 4- Fat Bottom Girls**

_ “Oh, won't you take me home tonight? _

_ Oh, down beside your red firelight _

_ Oh, and you give it all you got _

_ Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go 'round _

_ Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go 'round” _

**The next morning- 2008**

The next morning, Aziraphale meets Crowley at their familiar park bench in St. James’s Park. People pass them without a second glance as the two sit in silence for a long while. He pretends to watch the ducks on the lake, and looks to the other man out of the corner of his eye. The ring on Crowley’s right thumb is a dark blue, so at least Aziraphale knows the preferred pronouns of his...partner, he supposes. That’s the only thing he can tell about her, though; between her shades covering her eyes and her permanently slouched posture, it’s hard to tell what she’s thinking at this moment in time.

“You’re sure it was the Antichrist? The Devil’s son?”

“I should know.” She says, apparently not looking at him. “I delivered the baby.” She thinks about that for a quick moment, before backtracking, finally looking to him. “Well, not ‘delivered’ delivered, you know? Just…” She looks back to the duck pond. “...handed him over.”

“An American diplomat.” He finally looks to her at that. “Really?”

“Puts him in protection for quite some time.” Crowley points out. “With the protection of being an American, he has American guards. Scotland Yard isn’t going to want to get involved and cause an international dispute. Without the intervention, the child is allowed to grow up until it is time for him to start the War.”

“We will win, of course.” The bell tolls around them, and she looks to him at that, an amused smile just below the surface. 

“You really believe that?”

“Obviously.” Crowley leans back in further amusement, and her hair falls back just enough for the snake tattoo to be seen at her temple. “Good will finally triumph over evil. It always does, and always will.” He looks away at that.

Crowley mutters something about ‘ _ bloody fairytale ethics’ _ before saying louder: “Out of interest, how many records of first class composers do you have in your shop?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, so Crowley continues. 

“A lot. And most of those were not in your collection until you met me. Let’s see...uh, Mozart. Beethoven….erm, Schubert. All the Bach’s-”

“Those were gifts.”

“Yes! From  _ me _ . If your lot wins, then I won’t be around for these small gifts and favors anymore, and everything will go back to how it was nearly twenty years ago!” He looks away from her at that. “No more Albert Hall. No more Glyndebourne. Just that old police scanner, and those records at home gathering dust.”

“Well-”

“And that’s just the  _ start  _ of what you’ll lose if you win. No more...fascinating little restaurants where they know you.” He struggles to keep a facade as she continues, watching him. She already knows he’s struggling. “No gravlax in dill sauce. No time for that when you return to active duty.” She seems to have the final stake in the grave, for she stands as she says: “No more old bookshops.” And she begins to walk away. 

Aziraphale looks up at that.  _ No more bookshops?  _ He rises and chases after her. “Hey! Wait!”

She doesn’t put up a fight. She stops and turns, waiting for him to catch up before sauntering on. “You do realize that once the war is over, if  _ your side _ wins, then you have to return to active duty. If you’re lucky, you could return to patrols, maybe another operation, but I figure Gabriel will transfer you from undercover operations to desk duty. And I’ll…” She shrugs and looks away. “Well, I’ll be too busy serving thirty to life to entertain you.”

“How do you know it’ll come to that?”

She turns, and Aziraphale imagines she’s giving him a credulous look, before she turns away and begins up the stairs, hands in her pockets. “We’ve only got eleven years, and then it’s all over.” She looks back to him. “We have to work together.”

He sighs, wringing his hands as he looks around before saying: “No.”

She throws her head back in a dramatic sigh. “It’s the end of everything we’re talking about, whether or not you win. It’s not some job I’ve asked you to cover for me while you’re up in Edinburgh for the festival. You can’t say no.”

“No.” Up ahead, Aziraphale notices that an officer is writing a ticket for the familiar black Bentley. If Crowley has noticed, she seems too invested in the upcoming argument to notice. 

“We can do something.” She hunches her shoulders, gaze finally catching on the car. “I have an idea.”

“No!” He stops in tracks, forcing her to stop as well. “I am  _ not  _ interested!” She stops arguing, and he sighs and begins to walk away. 

“Well, let’s have lunch! Hm?” He stops at the temptation, and she knows she has him. Still, she feigns nonchalance as he looks back to her. “I still owe you one from…” She shrugs, fumbling for a date.

He sighs. “Paris. 1995.”

She grins at that, relaxing. “Yes!  _ Paris _ .” She steps off the sidewalk, and the traffic cop looks to her in confusion. She ignores him. “Was that one of ours or one of yours?”

Aziraphale waves off the traffic cop, showing his badge. “Can’t recall.” He watches the traffic cop scurry off, before turning back with a grin. “We had crepes!”

If Aziraphale could see Crowley’s gaze, he’s sure she would be rolling her eyes. Still, she merely tuts as she climbs in. Once Aziraphale is settled, she squeals from the sidewalk into the London traffic. 

* * *

A fine difference between Crowley and himself, Aziraphale remembers, is their eating habits. Crowley orders herself something simple and scarfs it down as if it’ll be her last meal. Aziraphale, however, savors every bite from each plate, closing his eyes in ecstasy at a particularly delicious spoonful. 

So that’s how Crowley spends most of the meal: watching him. He tries to ignore her gaze by merely focusing on the delicious devil chocolate cake in front of him until each morsel is gone. Somewhere nearby, a champagne cork pops, and Crowley doesn’t even flinch. She simply watches him with a furrowed brow, as if studying each tiny detail of the older police detective. 

“Mm.” He says finally, wiping his mouth with the napkin from his lap. Crowley merely shifts in her study. “That was scrumptious. Shall I foot the bill?”

That snaps Crowley out of her thoughts. “Nonsense!” She raises her hand for the waiter. “I already told you I owe you one. ‘S on me.”

“But-” Before Aziraphale can build an argument, perhaps based on  _ chivalry _ and  _ ordering the most expensive meal between them _ , the waiter approaches and Crowley hands her card to them before waving them off. Aziraphale sighs, but lets it go. “So, what are you in the mood for now?”

“Alcohol!” She picks up the spoon from her coffee and bangs it against her wine glass. They earn some odd looks from other tables, but both ignore them as she leans towards Aziraphale. “Quite  _ extraordinary _ amounts of alcohol!”

* * *

That evening, Harriet Dowling is released to return with Warlock Dowling to the official London residence set aside for her. By this point, the Antichrist has been away from his father for twenty-four hours. 

Mother Superior and Sister Thersa watch the American car leave with its escort before letting out a sigh of relief. Their job was done. 

As the sirens fade, the women turn to return into the convent, but jump and gasp as the man behind them gives them an expectant look. Mother Superior grins. “Our mission is done, Lord Hastur. The baby is in place, and his parents are none the wiser.”

“Well, no need for the convent any longer then, is there?”

Mother Superior’s smile fades. “I’m afraid I-”

“Dissolved.” Hastur says firmly. “Boss is giving you the eviction notice.”

Mother Superior turns, outraged, and Sister Thersa is following her fast. “We’re  _ what? _ ”

“Now hang on a moment!” Sister Thersa cuts in. “We did everything that was asked of us! What about our reward?”

“So irritating.” Hastur groans, hand slowly stroking the butt of his gun where it is holstered. Mother Superior shuts up, but Sister Thersa is undeterred. “You never shut up, do you?”

“We are a  _ chattering order _ .” Sister Thersa argues. “We say what is on our mind. And right now what is on my mind is that you can’t treat us like-”

Hastur, having grown bored of the nun, pulls out his gun lazily. With a silenced shot, Sister Thersa crumples to the ground, dead where she stood. Mother Superior gasps in horror as Hastur lazily kicks at the corpse before addressing her. “Would you like to tell them the order is dissolved? Or would you rather they all perish in the fire?”

“What fire-?” Before she can finish, there’s a loud  _ BOOM _ . She whips around to see the church explode and catch flame, and she screams. Hiking up her skirts, she takes off through the rain towards the burning convent, still screaming. 

Hastur grins at her scream, taking pleasure in the shrill cry. Destruction was Hastur’s finest work, and it always brought him glee to watch it unfold. He begins to laugh, until it is nearly hysterical, and he forces himself to walk away, wiping a stray tear. Behind him, the body of Sister Thersa is long forgotten. 

* * *

Meanwhile, in a bookshop in Soho, a police detective and a criminal have been drinking solidly, and are on their way to becoming  _ utterly _ sloshed. At some point, one of the two (more than likely Crowley) has adjusted the speed on the record player which is now playing out of abandon. Neither seem to care, too absorbed in their conversation. 

“So what….” Aziraphale loses his train of thought momentarily, seemingly fascinated with Crowley sloppily pouring herself another glass of wine. “So what exactly is your point?”

“My point is…” She burps as she hoists herself from leaning against the pillar and begins to shamble. “My  _ point is _ ...dolphins.” Aziraphale stops sipping his wine and looks to see her failing to stifle a stupid grin. “That’s my point.”

He sighs, but says nothing as she continues to ramble and stumble across the room. “Big brains, the size of…” She fumbles for an answer before she plops down on the couch, throwing off her glasses so Aziraphale can see her gaze clearly. “Damn big brains.

“Not to mention the whales.  _ Brain city _ , whales!”

“Kraken.”

“Tha’s not even real-”

“ _ Great. Big. Bugger. _ ”

Crowley falls into peals of laughter at that, and it takes her a moment to resettle on her tangent. She takes a sip of wine from the corner of her glass, watching him with piercing eyes of blue and brown. So Aziraphale takes the opportunity to get a word in. 

“Even if the Kraken isn't real, it often brings destruction.”

“Tha’s mah point!” Crowley nearly falls out of her seat from lunging forward, pointing at Aziraphale. “Even if the Kraken isn’t real, it’s destructive! Like this whole damn war is going to be! For all we know, Scotland Yard could decide the best way to rid of us Demons is to contact their friends in the big leagues who could just launch bombs all over London!”

Aziraphale gives her a tired look at that. “My dear, I don’t believe those connections exist.”

“I don’t believe they don’t. Those bombs make the water bubble and boil.” Aziraphale nods at that. “The dolphins, the whales. Everything turning into bouillab-” She stumbles over the word before she can finish it. “Bouill...bouillab…”

Aziraphale can’t help a snicker before he mimics the kissing lips that the word requires with slightly more success than Crowley while he refills his glass. 

“Right, fish stew.” Crowley gives up, but doesn’t lose her drunken enthusiasm. “Anyway, it’s not their fault. Same with gorillas.” She points behind her, despite the London zoo being the opposite direction. “They say like ‘whoop’. They say a lot of-” At this point, her words lose coherence and instead become  _ pshing  _ and  _ hissing _ . “Sky’s gone red! There’s...stars crashing down, and what are they putting in bananas these days!?”

Aziraphale hugs his glass between his hands, watching Crowley get up and pace. “They won’t do that!”

“Even if they don’t,” She whips back around, “ _ even  _ if your side wins, you still gotta deal with the rest of the force  _ forever _ !”

Aziraphale actually seems afraid at that. “Forever?” 

“Yeah, it won’t be so bad at first. I mean, reuniting with your ‘brothers in arms’ and what have you. Although, no Stephen Sondheim opening nights with that bunch. Perhaps no Stephen Sondheim at all! But I heard your boss  _ really _ likes the  _ Sound of Music _ !” Crowley flashes the old program at Aziraphale from where she had picked it up, and he groans as he pulls a face. “Plays it out loud sometimes! You could literally ‘climb every mountain’ over and over and over. And over and over.” 

“I don’t like it any more than you do.” Aziraphale slurs. “But I told you, I can’t diso-” He stumbles over the word, and settles for something easier- “not do what I’m told.”

“Of course you could.” Crowley pushes, drawing nearer like a snake sneaking upon its prey. “The whole idea of our relationship is disobedience. Our Arrangement is disobedience.”

“You’re saying that word so easily for someone who struggled to say bouillabaisse.” Crowley ignores that, practically sitting on the edge of Aziraphale’s armchair. He can smell the wine on her breath. He can’t breathe! He pushes her away. “ _ Enough _ , Crowley! I’m not going to let you tempt me with…” he restrains himself from what he truly wants to say, “with discussions of animals, or classic records, or-or bookshops! Can’t you see that I’m going to do my job?”

Crowley looks up at him from where she had fallen on her butt on the floor. “So that’s it then?” She slowly pushes herself to her feet. “You just  _ don’t care _ ?”

“Crowley-”

She holds up a hand to stop him. She’s not sober, and frankly neither is he. But it’s concerning to him to see emotion welling up in her eyes. “You don’t care that this could  _ kill _ so many innocent people? You don’t care that the boy could probably  _ die _ ? And for what?”

Aziraphale can’t look at her at that. It’s not that he didn’t care…

“I already know you don’t care about  _ me _ .” Crowley stops him. “You don’t care that I would be going  _ back  _ to prison, now that you have everything you could ever want!”

“That’s not-”

“Forget this.” Crowley spits. “Forget I said anything.” She sighs and runs a hand over her eyes before saying in a softer voice. “I’m going for a smoke.” After one more glance, she grabs the bottle of wine before heading upstairs and slamming the door behind her. 

Aziraphale is at a loss for words on what to say. For a long moment, he merely watches the door before sighing and heaving himself to his feet. The events of the past minute seem to be draining the effect of the alcohol as he takes the stairs up to the flat above; his flat. Slowly, he turns the knob and opens the door, before peeking in. The main living area and kitchen are empty, but the window off the living room is open, and someone is sitting on the fire escape. He sighs before crossing the flat, and hoists himself up the table and through the window. 

Sure enough, Crowley is smoking a cigarette, occasionally taking a swig of wine to mix the nicotine and her sadness. 

“You still smoke?” He asks as he sits down next to her on the fire escape. She grunts and takes another drag, before speaking.

“Don’t wanna catch your books on fire.”

Aziraphale gives a weak chuckle at that, but Crowley doesn’t laugh. The laugh fades into a forlorn sigh and he looks down. Crowley takes another swig of wine. “Why are you here?” She asks finally. 

He looks down to his hands. “I’m...sorry if it seems like I don’t care. I  _ do _ care, I care about you. But I won’t help with a plan that is set to fail, and set to get me in trouble.” He looks up, strong in this. “Even if I wanted to help, I can’t interfere with the plan.” The Metropolitan Police kept their plan under so many locks and keys that Aziraphale is sure he does not know the full plan. He just has to have faith it was going to be in the best interest of London. 

Crowley thinks for a long moment, taking a drag. When she exhales, she asks: “Well what about a diabolical plan?” 

Aziraphale stares at her, so she continues. 

“I mean, technically your job is to be  _ thwarting  _ me. Isn’t that why you were assigned to this part, undercover? To catch Demons like me? To thwart the wiles of the Demons at every turn?”

He shrugs. “Well…”

“See a wile, ya  _ thwart _ , am I right?”

“I...Broadly.”

“You can’t be certain that isn’t listed in your boss’s plan too. Now, the Antichrist has been born.” Suddenly she seems way too sober, way too serious as she leans towards him. Her gaze pierces him. “But he isn’t going to be born destroying all of London. It’s the influences, the upbringing...that’s what is going to be important. I’ve already been given my next orders to watch the boy and ensure he grows in the way of his father.” She shrugs, gaze coyly turned away. “Be a shame if someone made sure that I failed.”

Aziraphale looks down in thought. Finally, it clicks, and he slowly looks up to his Demon counterpart. “If you put it that way...surely, they can’t see anything  _ wrong _ if I was thwarting you.” 

“No.” Crowley agrees. “Might even get you a commendation.”

The two stare at each other for a long moment, both searching each other for an answer. Finally, Aziraphale leans forward and holds out his hand. Crowley looks down to it, and then grins as she puts down the wine, takes the hand and shakes it. She can’t stop grinning as she leans back, and Aziraphale feels light as a feather and as if he were being chained to the bottom of the ocean at the same time. 

“We’d be godparents sort of, overseeing his upbringing.” She still can’t stop grinning. She squashes out her cigarette and takes the bottle again. “We do it right, he won’t be evil.” She begins to take a swig, but stops to continue her point. “Or good! He’ll just be…” She shrugs, “Normal.” 

Aziraphale can’t help but chuckle. “It might work.” He accepts the bottle from Crowley and takes a huge gulp. After he swallows, he grins again. “ _ Godparents _ . Well I’ll be damned.”

Crowley seems to have a small chuckle to herself at that. “It’s not that bad once you get used to it.” 

His smile fades at that and for the first time (the second being after he’s woken up the next morning next to a snoring Crowley on the couch and sees a shoddily written plan), he wonders what exactly he has agreed to. 


	5. Bicycle Race

**Chapter 5- Bicycle Race**

_ “You say black, I say white _

_ You say bark, I say bite _

_ You say shark, I say hey man _

_ Jaws was never my scene  _

_ And I don’t like Star Wars _

_ You say Rolls, I say Royce _

_ You say God give me a choice _

_ You say Lord, I say Christ _

_ I don’t believe in Peter Pan  _

_ Frankenstein or Superman[...]” _

**Meanwhile, on the other side of the world…**

This also happens to be the story of a witch. 

Agnes Nutter was the last witch to be burned in England about 360 years prior. She had the gift of foresight, of prediction and prophecy the likes of which no one had ever seen before. She was hunted down and sentenced to die at the stake by Witchfinder Major Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer. Her death was marked in a fiery explosion that not only killed her, but the Witchfinder and many others of her village that had accused her of witchcraft. 

The surrounding villages debated over whether the disaster had been sent by God or Satan. Whichever it was, they were probably helped by the fifty pounds of gunpowder and the thirty pounds of roofing nails concealed within her petticoats. This was discovered after her death by her daughter and son-in-law, alongside a box locked tight, and a book entitled “ _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter _ ”, which was guaranteed by her publishers to be a hit. So her son-in-law, John Device, alongside his wife Virtue Device, made it the family’s destiny to study the prophecies within the book. Her book was discovered to enclose entirely correct predictions concerning the next three hundred or so years.

This is the story of a witch. Just, not that witch. 

Rather, this is about one who comes over three hundred years after Agnes Nutter: her great-great-great-great-great granddaughter. When Aziraphale and Crowley were drinking as the Sun went down in London, the Sun was rising in Malibu, California. There, a young Anathema Device was coloring on the front page of “ _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter” _ . 

“Okay Anathema.” The young girl stops colouring as her mother sits down across from her with a plate of toast. “Prophecy 2,214.”

Anathema sighs, but begins to recite: “ _ In December 1980, an Apple will arise no man can eat.  _ That one’s stupid, mom. It doesn’t mean anything!”

Her mother smiles knowingly. “My mom bought 5,000 shares of Apple in 1980. That’s worth $40 million today.” She pulls another index card out of a box between them. “Okay. Prophecy 2,213.”

“ _ Four shall ride and three shall ride behind. And one shall ride in flames, and there shall be no stopping them. Not fish, nor rain; neither devil or angel. And ye shall be there also, Anathema.”  _

“You see? She’s got special plans for you,  _ mi amor. _ Agnes gave us the easy job. We just had to make sure everything was good for the family.” Her mother seems serious. “ _ You’re _ the one that’s going to have to save the world.” And with that, her mother pats her head, and leaves her to stare worryingly at the box of prophecies left on the table. 

* * *

The knock at the door of the Dowling’s London residence draws the butler, who at first is not sure he actually heard a knock over the screaming of the youngest resident. He straightens and sighs in frustration. No doubt this would be someone applying for the position of nanny for young Warlock. So many women, young and old, have shown up on the doorstep, but all have been turned away, unable to calm the screaming infant. Mrs. Dowling has been driven into hysterics over the issue.

The knock comes again, this time more insistent. The butler opens the door, and nearly shuts it again in his surprise. The woman wears a simple black skirt down to her ankles, and a black coat over a red blouse. She clenches an umbrella with the head of a parrot in one hand, and a carpetbag in the other. Her vibrant red hair is curled and pinned underneath her hat, and her eyes are covered by a pair of dark shades.

“I understand you need a nanny.” Her voice is on the deeper end of femininity with a slight Scottish accent. All the butler can do is stand and stare at this woman who resembles Mary Poppins, as if she were a physical manifestation of evil.

The lady doesn’t wait for an invitation, and rather slips in. “Where’s the little one?”

He nods towards the stairs and stammers. “T-the nursery.”

She sets her bag and umbrella down at the door and immediately sets up the stairs. The butler trails behind her as she follows the screams to the open door. She pushes it and approaches the crib. Mrs. Dowling looks up. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

The butler clears his throat. “This is the new nanny applicant.”

The lady ignores them both, peeking down at the screaming child. After a moment, she reaches down and scoops up Warlock. She begins to gently to rock him, and for the first time in hours, his crying ceases. She hums softly to him, but then stops suddenly. Her nose wrinkles up and she holds Warlock’s behind up to her nose and sniffs.

“Did you think to check his nappy?” She asks Mrs. Dowling. When the mother looks to her helplessly, she bites back a sigh and crosses to the changing table. Warlock coos as she lays him down, and she pulls off her black gloves and replaces them with disposable ones before opening the nappy.

“Children at this age need four things: food, sleep, stimulation, and a clean nappy. They cannot do anything on their own, so you must provide.” She says as grabs a wipe and pulls up Warlock’s legs to wipe his bum as he giggles. Then, she grabs a rash cream and spreads it, before grabbing the old nappy and replacing it with a new one. She tosses the dirty one and slips the new on, latching it down.

“All done.” She says and lifts the child. He squeals as she bounces him gently.

“Um…” Mrs. Dowling snaps back into motion. “Thank you Ms….?”

“Ashtoreth Pritchard.” She says without sparing either of the adults a glance. “But you may call me Nanny Ashtoreth or Nanny.”

Mrs. Dowling steals a glance to the butler, who immediately straightens. “Would you like me to take your bags to your room, madam?”

“Please.” Is all she says, bouncing Warlock before beginning to hum again. The butler nods and hurries out. Mrs. Dowling relaxes, and decides to reward herself with a glass of wine in the den.

Crowley watches her go, before returning her attention to Warlock. “Looks like you and I are going to be spending a lot of time together, hm?” She smiles and bounces Warlock, who is gumming on her finger. The son of Lucifer is so…innocent. She has eleven years to change that. Or,  _ fail _ to change that.

A week later, a kitchen maid opens the back door to find a man standing on the porch. His plump cheeks are ruddy, and his buck teeth make it easier for him to grin. “They do say as you might be looking for a gardener.” He says in a West Country accent, and when he grins, he wiggles his eyebrows. 

The kitchen maid steals a glance back to the butler, who gives a weary nod before walking away. Between the gardener of sunshine and Mary Poppins’s evil twin, things were going to be interesting. 

* * *

That night, the gardener creeps from his small cottage into the garden. He steals a glance around as he walks, as if looking for someone. 

“Been reading up like I told you to?”

The gardener gasps and jumps before turning to see Nanny Ashtoreth, and relaxes with a relieved sigh, posh accent returning. “Crowley.”

“Hey angel.” Crowley says, approaching him in the garden. “I see you made it all right.”

“I was hired on the spot.” Aziraphale says, waiting for her to grow close. “No one asked questions. Walk with me?”

She nods, and together the two walk through the roses. “I can’t say quite the same. I had to calm the screaming hellspawn before I was hired.”

“Hellspawn?” She looks to him at that, glasses shining in the moonlight. “My dear, I hardly believe that is an appropriate thing to call a  _ child _ -”

“Oh, relax.” She cuts him off. “It’s not an insult. I’m merely acknowledging his true parentage without anyone else finding out. I have to start young to ensure he’s raised correctly.”

“ _ Correctly? _ ” Aziraphale scoffs. “My dear, I  _ will not _ be allowing that to happen. I will make sure that fails!”

“I hope you do.” Crowley says softly, so soft Aziraphale almost can’t hear her. Then she turns and gives him a devilish grin. “But I never said I would make it easy for you.” 

He huffs. “Oh, you….you wily serpent!”

She laughs at that. “That nickname is never going away, is it?” 

“Of course not!” That makes Crowley laugh again. 

When her laughter fades, they walk on in comfortable silence. Aziraphale steals a glance to Crowley. In the moonlight, he can see the shadows spreading over her face, drawn by the downturn of her lips after she stopped laughing. She seems...sad. But he can’t be sure why. Maybe she was just as afraid of the outcome of these eleven years as he was. 

“Crowley?” She hums and looks to him. “Are you all right?”

She clears her throat, and the sadness disappears. “Yeah, yeah. Just getting used to...not smoking.”

He tuts and plays along with the obvious lie. “Well you can’t risk smoking around a child, even the Antichrist. Perhaps nicotine patches would help.”

“Uh...yeah. Yeah, I’ll try that.” She can’t look at him anymore. “I’ll see you...I’ll see you. Good luck.”

“Crowley-” But Crowley has already left the garden. The back door of the mansion slams shut, and Aziraphale is alone. 

* * *

**Five years later - 2013**

**Six years until The End**

Warlock knows Nanny is watching him with one of her faint smiles as he runs to the garden. He also knows that if she had still been watching, her smile would fade if she were to see who he is running to. 

“Ah!” The gardener calls when he sees Warlock running to him, and he stops what he is doing. “Young master Warlock!” He ambles over and looks down at him with his ruddy cheeks and buck tooth grin. “You’re growing fast.” He crouches down. “You must be all of, um…”

“Five.” Warlock supplies, pointing to himself then holding up five fingers. “I’m five.”

Brother Francis, the gardener, rises with a hum of satisfaction.

Warlock is soon distracted again, and points to the bird he doesn’t recognize. “What’s that?”

Brother Francis looks, eager to answer. It seems Nanny Ashtoreth is teaching Warlock to be curious, and this gives him the perfect in. “Oh, that’s Brother Pigeon.” He tosses some bird feed to the pigeon, before his eyes catch on something on the ground. He points. “And Brother Snail.” And just nearby… “Oh, and Sister Slug.

“Now,” Brother Francis grunts as he sits on the ground, now eyelevel to Warlock, “you remember, young Warlock, as you grow, to have love and reverence for all living things.”

Warlock looks at him with a small smile meaning that he knows something Brother Francis doesn’t, before saying: “Nanny says living things are only fit to be ground under my heels, Brother Francis.”

He forces a chuckle at that. Of  _ course _ she did. “Well don’t you listen to her.” He says with a fake smile as he gently pokes Warlock in the chest twice to set the point home. It fades and he says seriously: “You listen to me.” 

Warlock nods and he smiles again before slowly getting to his feet, letting Warlock have the bird feed to feed Brother Pigeon. 

* * *

After a long day of playing, five year old Warlock has been bathed and tucked into bed by his Nanny. She always tucks him in, even when both his parents are home. She ruffles his hair with the closest thing anyone could ever call a fond smile before turning away. She turns the key to his music box and it begins to play as she elegantly sits down across him. 

“Will you sing me a lullaby, Nanny?”

“Of course, dear.” She says softly, before she starts singing: 

“ _ Go to sleep,  _

_ And dream of pain _

_ Doom and Darkness _

_ Blood and Brains. _

_ Sleep so sweet,  _

_ My darling boy. _

_ You will rule _

_ When Earth’s destroyed.” _

Warlock has sunk into his pillow when she finishes. She begins to get up when he speaks again. 

“The gardener says I must be kind and nice to everybody.” He sits up with this intense look in his eyes. “ _ Even Sister Slug. _ And not ever destroy the earth.”

“Don’t listen to him.” She leans in, and the shadows cast on her face give her a demonic look as she hisses. “ _ Listen to me _ .”

But this is Warlock, and he did not assume any sort of threat from his Nanny. Especially when after, she leans forward and gives him a kiss and pulls the covers back up to his chin. “Time to sleep, now.” She says in a softer voice, shadows disappearing before she stands up, shuts off his lamp, and slowly closes the door as she leaves. 

* * *

On their day off, the gardener and the Nanny went back to London before sunrise. They had gone separately to their own living spaces before waiting for the bus at their respective stops. 

Aziraphale is already on the bus when they stop in Mayfair, and Crowley gets on. The two avoid each other’s gaze, and Crowley sits in a seat diagonal from Aziraphale. He tries to return his focus to the word he had already been reading over and over for five minutes, but can’t take his eyes off Crowley. He’s fidgeting with the blue ring on his thumb, staring at the back of the bus driver’s head. He finally looks down to his hand, realizes he still has the ring on, and slips it into his pocket. From there, he wipes his hands on his pants and his shoulders rise as he takes a deep breath, turning his gaze straight ahead.

Aziraphale turns his attention back to the book. He knows Crowley well enough to know he’s preparing himself. Aziraphale had done that as well earlier that morning, staring long and hard in the mirror as he repeated his report to himself over and over. There’s nothing more he can do. After all, he’s doing the right thing. They shouldn’t be upset that he’s attempting to prevent a war, right? 

Finally, the bus comes to a stop on a familiar street in London. Both rise without even looking at each other and step off the bus into the noisy atmosphere. Aziraphale takes a deep breath and sighs, tucking the book underneath his arm. He steals a glance to find Crowley is watching him. They meet gazes for a few seconds, before turning and walking in opposite directions in silence. 

Crowley pulls on an air of confidence like a coat and strides to the back entrance of Morningstar Tower. He flashes his ID tag for the security guards, who nod and open the door for him. Once the doors shut behind him, it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darker side of the building.  _ This _ was where the criminal underground began and reigned. Despite being in a large tower, Crowley finds himself becoming claustrophobic as he pushes his way past throngs of people to get to the main counter. The secretary takes one look at him before pointing at the door behind them. He nods and slips past them into the room. 

As soon as the door shuts, five pairs of eyes latch onto him. The Dark Council, the ones who take care of Lucifer’s underlings while he’s busy building a trustworthy public face. He pretends not to be bothered by it, and makes his way to the center. 

“Nice of you to show up, Crawly.” Hastur snarls as Crowley approaches. 

“I told you I would be here.” Crowley says mildly. “And here I am. What more can you ask?” 

Hastur growls, but is not allowed to say anything more as the door slams open and the head of the Dark Council enters. Her hair is always matted, and she has scars across her face from her work in the field. She had a particular trick of drawing flies to her enemies before they had even died. She’s smaller than almost everyone in the room, but the Lord of the Flies still exudes an energy that forces everyone to stand and pay attention to her. 

“Tell us about the boy, Warlock!” She commands, coming to stand in front of Crowley. 

Crowley smiles. “He’s a  _ remarkable  _ child, Lord Beelzebub.” 

“But is he evil?” Hastur, a duke, asks from his right. 

“ _ Fantastically  _ evil.”

“Killed anyone yet?” Ligur, a newer duke, grows close until Crowley has to lean back to keep some space. He is then reminded that everyone on the Dark Council was awarded for their ruthlessness in their murder. Some may have even started near Warlock’s age without remorse. 

“Uh...not yet.” Crowley hurries to recover with a small smirk. “But there’s more to evil than just killing people, eh?”

Beelzebub looks around as she hears murmurs of agreement, but says nothing. 

“I suppose.” Ligur says, obviously frustrated to be outvoted. “But it’s fun.”

Beelzebub continues, redrawing Crowley’s attention from where Ligur had stalked off. “Have you encountered any problems from the…” She closes her eyes, then sighs. “Opposition?”

At that, Crowley grins. “They don’t suspect  _ a thing _ .”

* * *

“I am proud to say that on a very real level,” Aziraphale is finishing his rehearsed report in front of his fellow officers with a beaming smile, “the child is now being influenced towards the light.”

After a pause, Captain Gabriel begins clapping and the others slowly follow. “Very commendable work, Detective. Excellent work, as usual.” He stops clapping, and the others quickly follow. 

“Yes.” Sergeant Michael agrees, standing near the back. She comes forward. “But Detective, we will be most understanding when you fail.” Gabriel points to her for making a good point as she continues. “After all, wars are to be won.”

“Not avoided.” Another officer, Uriel, adds. 

His smile begins to falter, but he tries to hold it up. “But I won’t fail. I mean, that would be bad.”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel stands, now towering over Aziraphale, “what you’re doing is praiseworthy, but obviously doomed to failure.” He chuckles, and Aziraphale’s expression falls. Gabriel slips out in front of Michael and approaches him. “Still, as the Commissioner always likes to say: Climb every mountain.” He smiles at the reference before heading to his office. 

Aziraphale is content to watch him go until Sandalphon, another officer and Gabriel’s lackey, stops in front of him. “Ford every stream.” He grins, and his gold tooth gleams before he leaves. Aziraphale merely nods, and allows his face to fall and a sigh to escape after the door has shut. 

-

The bell rings as the door opens, and Aziraphale steals a glance up from his newspaper to see Crowley climb on. He pretends he doesn’t see Crowley slip into the seat behind him. 

“The boy’s too normal.” Crowley whispers finally, allowing Aziraphale to fold up his newspaper. 

“Excellent. It’s working.” He can’t help a relieved breath of a laugh. “The good influences are balancing out the bad. A no-score draw.” 

“I hope you’re right.” Crowley doesn’t sound so sure, and he looks away. “Only six years left to go.” 

At the silence, Aziraphale can feel his smile fading and his concern growing. “Crowley?”

“Yeah?” 

“I mean,” It’s growing hard to breathe, and harder to not turn around to see what the other is thinking, “if he comes into his heritage and decides to join his father, how do we stop him then?”

A long, aching silence follows. 

“I’m sure it won’t come to that.” Crowley says finally, signaling the end of the conversation. He leans back in the seat and crosses his arms, and Aziraphale can only look helplessly ahead.

* * *

**Five years later, 2018**

**One year until the End**

Nanny had slipped away from the birthday party to her chambers. There, she was folding her clothing into her carpet bag, and sorting the numerous drawings and gifts Warlock had given her through the years into a box. She pauses, setting down the lid to the box and pulling off her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose. Hopefully, she could make it out before Warlock realized she was gone. She had tried to discuss it with him days prior...it had not gone well. But it’s his tenth birthday, and she’s no longer needed. Her time has run out here. 

“Nanny?” Warlock’s voice comes from the doorway, and Nanny turns without thinking. He’s still wearing a birthday hat, but his cheery smile is long gone. “You’re really leaving?”

She nods, and sets her glasses down on the box. “Yes, dear. It’s time for me to go.”

“But…” Before she can stop him, tears are rolling down his cheeks. “But I don’t want you to go!”

“Oh-” She hurries to him, kneels and pulls him close. He clings to her, crying into her shoulder. She holds him close and rocks him back and forth, rubbing his back. “It’s okay to cry. It’s okay…”

“Why do you have to go?” He sobs finally.

She leans into his head. “You’re ten now. Ten year olds no longer need nannies.”

“Then, I don’t want to be ten! I want you to stay!”

She feels pressure building behind her eyes, but she sniffs to keep it back. “That’s not how it works, my little hellspawn. Look at me.”

He obeys her gentle request, and looks up. She cups his face and gives him a watery smile. “We will be together again soon. When your time comes to rule the world, I will be at your side, watching over you just like always.”

“When will that be?” He sniffs. 

She smiles and kisses his head. “Soon.” She promises. 

There’s a gentle knock at the door, and she looks up to the gardener. He tries not to look at her glassy eyes. “Would’s you like me to take your bags to your car, madam?”

She nods wordlessly, and looks down to Warlock. “Would you grab my glasses, dear?”

He shakes his head and clings to her. She gives a small laugh that she chokes before it can turn into a sob, and instead stands with him in her arms. She crosses to her bed and slips on her glasses before readjusting her hold on Warlock. 

She follows Brother Francis out to her car. The old Bentley sits with the back doors open. She manages to set Warlock long enough to help slip her bags in the car. Through the other side, Brother Francis gives her a sad, pitying look. He would be following soon, staying just long enough for it to not be suspicious. She looks away from him and closes her door before crossing to the driver’s side. Warlock runs up to her, and embraces her legs, nearly knocking her off balance. She recovers and ruffles his hair. When he looks up to her, she leans down and kisses the top of his head.

“Soon.” She repeats, and he nods, beginning to cry again. Her heart aches, but she can’t stay much longer. She wipes away a tear, before standing. She forces herself to not look back as she climbs in her car and starts the engine. Even over the noise of the car and the radio starting up, she can hear Warlock beginning to sob. Despite everything in her screaming for her not to, she looks over to see Brother Francis struggling to hold Warlock in his arms, the boy red in the face and wailing. Her chest aches even more, but she forces herself to merely wave before putting the car in gear and driving through the gates to the estate. 

It’s not until she’s down the road that she realizes the radio is wailing. Well, now as she focuses more, she realizes it’s the song. It’s not Queen, no, but it was someone Warlock had enjoyed listening to on their trips. The thought of her-no...the boy singing along off key is what makes the dam burst, and as the chorus begins, Crowley pulls over, and allows herself to sob. 

“ _ So goodbye Yellow Brick Road, _

_ Where the dogs of society howl. _

_ You can’t plant me in your penthouse, _

_ I’m going back to my plow. _

_ Back to the howling old owl in the woods, _

_ Hunting the horny back toad. _

_ Oh, I’ve finally decided my future lies _

_ Beyond the Yellow Brick Road!” _

* * *

**1989**

Crowley loses track of the time he spends at the bar with Fell. Glasses seem to fill and empty more times than he can remember, and he’s back on the way to becoming well and truly sloshed, laughing over something Fell said that he can’t even remember. 

In all fairness, Fell only seems slightly better off than him, cheeks rosy pink. He’s leaning into Crowley now, and Crowley can feel his warm breath against his neck. Part of him wonders if Fell would turn his head and begin kissing the exposed skin....

He feels Fell lift his head. “Anthony, I was wondering if we could-”

Crowley swoops in before Fell can say another word, his lips smushing the words unsaid between them. Fell stiffens, Crowley can feel it, so he immediately withdraws. 

“I…”  _ God,  _ what part of him thought that was okay?! He wasn’t even sure if this man was...interested. “I’ve had too much to drink-”

“Let’s get out of here.” Fell cuts him off breathlessly, taking his hand. Crowley freezes, but Fell doesn’t pull away. In fact, he grips tighter. 

Crowley swallows deeply. “Y-you mean it?”

Fell nods, squeezing his hand as he leans into Crowley’s shoulder. After a moment, he pulls away and slips off the stool, still holding his hand. Crowley...well, he attempts to slide off just as smoothly, only to nearly collapse onto the floor. 

“I got you.” Fell wraps a hand around his waist to keep him standing. 

“You’re so good to me.” Crowley mumbles, leaning his head into his shoulder. “You’re like an angel...my angel…”

Fell doesn’t answer. In the light of the exit, his silhouette takes a sharp shape that doesn’t seem to fit the soft man. Crowley ignores it as the door opens, instead electing to focus on the exposed skin of Fell’s neck. He begins to press slow kisses as the world grows cold and dark. Fell shivers and grips his side tighter. 

“Mmm…” Crowley hums. “I really needed this. We can go back to my place, angel-”

He squawks when Fell suddenly pushes him away. He stumbles, still on shaky balance, when Fell surges forward, too fast for Crowley’s eyes to track. As soft of a man as Fell had felt, the strength surprises him as he is slammed against the wall. His head knocks against the brick, and he has to blink the spots out of his eyes. When he does, he meets gaze with a piercing blue gaze. He suddenly realizes he had never seen Fell’s eyes up close, and now that he took him in completely, he realized he was terrifyingly familiar. 

“ _ Shit _ .” 

“Shit is right.” Fell, the officer apparently, says, accent gone, as he forces him against the wall with one arm against his neck and wrists. Crowley is pinned, not even able to protest as Fell reaches up and pulls his glasses off his face. 

“So you are the bomber.” 

“That’s a bit strong of a word, Fell. You see-”

“ _ Stop talking _ !” Fell hisses. He throws Crowley’s glasses off to the side, and reaches for the cuffs on his waist. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Adam and Eve Winslett.”

“ _ Murder _ ?” Crowley gasps. “Now hold on a minute!”

Fell pauses, and Crowley stumbles for an explanation. 

“I-I didn’t know there was a bomb in the basket, I swear!”

“Why should I believe you?” Fell asks, eyes narrowed. “How could you have not have known there was a bomb in the basket?”

“Because…” Why was his voice failing him  _ now? _ “Because…”

“What a worthless excuse.” Fell spits, pure rage making his voice shake. “Do you realize what you’ve done? You killed the son and daughter-in-law of the Commissioner. Her closest family. She’s  _ devastated  _ by the loss of her only son and his wife.”

There’s pressure building in the back of Crowley’s eyes, but he can’t blink them away. 

“There’s three boys,  _ children _ _!”

“ _ Children _ ?” Crowley’s eyes widen. His voice chokes in his throat. “I-I killed  _ children _ ?” 

Fell blinks, surprised by the sudden appearance of tears in the bomber’s eyes. Out of all things, he did not expect  _ remorse _ . Especially not over the thought of killing children. 

“No. No! You didn’t kill any children. Their sons weren’t in the house at the time. They’re safe.”

Crowley catches his breath, but his tears are still running down his face. “I killed their parents.” He murmurs softly. 

“Yes.” Fell agrees, not sure where this was going. “You did.”

Crowley can’t bite back the sob, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “I didn’t mean to.” He whispers.

“What?” Fell presses against him without thinking, trying to hear what he was saying. 

“I didn’t mean to kill them. I didn’t know there was a bomb in the basket.”

“How could you not know there was a bomb!?” Fell’s patience is wearing thin. “ _ How? _ ” 

“I was ordered not to look!” He sobs without thinking. He freezes and his eyes widen. 

“ _ What? _ ” Fell lets go of him in his shock, and Crowley hurries to cover his mouth.  _ Shit shit shit!  _ “Who ordered you?”

Crowley shakes his head, still covering his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut with a groan as he quickly regrets the action. He feels dizzy, and his stomach is in knots as the mental image of the children crying over the bodies of their parents invades his mind. 

“Anthony, you need to tell me_”

“ _ Don’t call me that!”  _ He shouts almost hysterically. Fell steps back, reaching for his gun, but Crowley doesn’t even notice.

“Don’t call me Anthony,  _ nobody gets to call me that! Especially  _ not you!” He points at Fell. “It’s Crawly and only Crawly!” 

He hunches over himself, hands tangled in his hair as he hyperventilates. Being unable to breathe makes him even sicker. 

“He’s going to kill me.” He sobs to himself. God, Lucifer was going to find out and  _ kill him _ . 

“Who?” Crowley blinks and looks up to Fell, who was no longer reaching for his gun or handcuffs. Crowley shakes his head. 

“I can’t...I can’t…” He closes his eyes and is instantly invaded with the second image of Lucifer towering over him, having just put a bullet through his head. His blood is mingling in with the bodies of Adam and Eve… “I’m gonna be sick.” 

“What-?”

Crowley bends over and the combination of stress, remorse, fear, and alcohol forces its way up his throat, opening his mouth to puke. He squeezes his eyes shut as his body pukes up everything in his stomach. By the time he is dry-heaving, he’s shaking and the world is swaying. 

“Oh dear Lord.” He hears Fell say as he approaches. Crowley flinches when his hand touches his back, and doesn’t relax as one rubs his back and the other pulls his puke-tainted hair out of his face. He leans into the hand with a weary whine. His head pounds now, and the tears are drying on his face. Fell sighs softly.

“Let’s get you out of here.” 


	6. You're My Best Friend

**Chapter 6- You’re My Best Friend**

_ “Oh, you’re the best friend that I ever had _

_ I’ve been with you such a long time _

_ You’re my sunshine and I want you to know  _

_ That my feelings are true _

_ I really love you _

_ Oh, you’re my best friend.”  _

**1 year later- 2019**

**Monday; Six days until the End**

“Warlock, are you listening to me, honey?” Mrs. Dowling and her son walk through the park. “Look what dinosaurs used to look like.”

“ _ Whatever _ .” Warlock says, not even looking up from his phone. Mrs. Dowling frowns at that. When they had dismissed the nanny, Ashtoreth Pritchard, her son couldn’t be consoled. He screamed and sobbed for hours at his 10th birthday, and cried nearly every night after. It was enough to make the Dowlings try and rehire the nanny, but it was as if she had disappeared off the earth. 

Warlock didn’t take well to that when they told him. That’s when he closed off; always looking down and tuning out his parents. If Mrs. Dowling hadn’t seen Ashtoreth with her son, she would have assumed the woman never taught him any manners. 

“They’re old and educational.”

“It’s dumb.”

She sighs, still watching her son. “It’s not dumb, sweetie. It’s a dinosaur.”

“Dumbasaur, more like.” He finally pockets his phone, and leans his back against the gate. “Can we talk about my birthday party? Why can’t I have it at an escape room?”

As Mrs. Dowling explains  _ yet again _ that they had already hired a magician, they both fail to notice the two men watching them from the hill above. 

“Well,” Crowley says, arms folded over his chest. He’s cut his hair again; cut it not long after he left the Dowling’s and it’s the shortest it’s been since he went to prison. The snake tattoo at his temple is visible. “We’ve done everything we can. All we can do now is wait for his birthday. The hound will be the key. Shows up at 3:00 on Wednesday.”

“Right.” Aziraphale seems troubled at that as he turns to Crowley. “You’ve never actually mentioned a hound before.”

Crowley looks to him, and sighs. “Oh yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, they’re sending him a hound to pad by his side and guard him from all harm.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looks away, now ruminating on the fact that a dog was going to arrive at the birthday party. 

“Biggest one they’ve got, I hear.” Crowley seems to not notice Aziraphale’s anxiety. 

“Won’t people remark on the sudden appearance of a huge black dog? His parents, for a start.”

Crowley shrugs. “Probably not. They’ll probably think it’s part of the magician's act, angel.” He exhales sharply through his nose. “Plus, his parents will probably be drinking inside like always; they won’t notice.”

He sighs as he continues. “It’s the start of it all. The boy’s meant to name it. Um...Throat Ripper, something like that. Boss dabbled in some experimentation to where the dog will only obey the boy’s commands, and protect the boy. They’ll know when the hound is named.  _ But _ , if you and I have done our job properly, he will send it away, unnamed.”

Aziraphale tries not to wring his hands. “What if he does name it?”

Crowley remains deadpan. “Then you and I have lost, he’ll be reunited with his father, and the End will be days away.” 

The desperation in Aziraphale’s eyes is heartbreaking, so Crowley forces himself to keep looking ahead. “There must be some way of stopping it.”

Crowley takes a deep breath, and breaks his own word. There  _ was  _ one other way, even if it twists his stomach into knots. “If there was no boy…” Aziraphale looks to him, “then the process would stop.”

“Yes, but there is a boy. He’s over there,” He points to where Warlock is hunched over an informative sign while his mother’s back is turned, “writing a rude word on a description of a dinosaur.” 

“Well, there is a boy now. That could change.” Aziraphale looks to him with a furrowed brow, so he pauses to think. “Something could happen to him.” When Aziraphale continues to look confused, he loses his patience and sharply says: “I’m saying you could kill him.”

The confusion morphs into alarm, and Aziraphale looks away to Warlock, beginning to wring his hands. “I’ve never actually… killed anyone.” Crowley is watching him expectantly as he fumbles for words. “I-I don’t think I could.”

Crowley leans in close, gaze hidden behind his shades. “Not even to save  _ everything _ ?” Aziraphale looks torn to the point of near tears. “One life against all of London.”

Aziraphale looks to him with glassy eyes, before looking away as he speaks again. “Then, this hound, i-it’ll show up at his birthday party?”

“Yeah.”

The tears are pushed away at Crowley’s confirmation, and he watches the other for a response. “Well we should be there! Maybe I can stop the dog. In fact,” an idea strikes him and Crowley knows he won’t like it, “I can entertain.”

Aaaand there it was. “No, no, no. Please, no.  _ No. _ ”

Aziraphale ignores him, wiggling his fingers in excitement. “I just need to get back into practice!” 

Crowley groans, staring up at the sky as Aziraphale pulls a coin out of his pocket and begins to turn it around in his fingers. “Please. Please! I’m actually begging you.” 

Aziraphale attempts to make the coin disappear, but it falls out from between his fingers and onto the ground. He attempts to go after it. 

“You have no idea how demeaning that is. Please!” 

He picks up the coin and hides it between his fingers again before standing. He reaches near Crowley’s ear and ‘pulls’ it out with a dramatic gasp. 

Crowley is unimpressed. “In your finger.”

“No, it was in your ear.”

“It was in your pocket-” Crowley begins to explain, and Aziraphale admits partial defeat.

“It was...close to your ear.”

“Never  _ anywhere _ near my ear.” He says as Aziraphale sits back down. 

“You’re no fun.”

“ _ Fun? _ ” 

“Yes.” Aziraphale grins to himself at that. 

“It’s humiliating.”

“But it’s fun. I can make things disappear!”

“I’ll make you disappear.” Crowley mutters. Aziraphale shoots him an unamused look. 

* * *

**Wednesday**

**3 days until the End**

Aziraphale the magician taps the cards as he searches. “Where’s he got to? Is he in here? Somewhere?” He taps them again, and grins when he finds the card. “There he is! Ha! This-” Before he can finish the act, he bends the cards and they go flying. 

The children in the crowd are unamused, and Crowley can’t help but agree with them. Of all things, Aziraphale wanted to be  _ the magician _ , even with a little mustache drawn on with eyeliner Crowley had lying around. Meanwhile, he was able to snitch a waiter’s uniform and keep his shades on and his distance from Warlock. He hoped the boy hadn’t seen him, and if he had, he wouldn’t recognize him. So far that seemed to be working. 

“We’ll come back to that one.” Aziraphale is growing flustered, so he hurries back to his top hat. “You see, it’s me old top hat! But wait!” He twirls his wand in a circle before tapping the hat. He gives a dramatic gasp and looks up to the children. “What’s this? Could it be our old furry friend Harry the Rabbit?” He pulls the rabbit out of the ‘hat’ and gently holds it out for the children to see. 

“It was in the table!” Warlock calls out from his spot on the floor, front and center. 

“You said there was going to be a  _ celebrity  _ magician.” His friend Trixie points out. Crowley ignores Trixie (he never liked her anyways; he thought Warlock could do better for friends) as he watches the seconds tick down on his watch as the minute rests at 2:59. 

_ Fifteen seconds. _

Trixie turns up her nose as she continues. “I had Penn and Teller at my party, and I had a silent disco, and I got a-”

Warlock cuts her off, still staring at Aziraphale. “You’re rubbish!” Aziraphale’s grin grows tight as he grows flustered.

“Excuse me, excuse me.” A little boy behind Warlock speaks up. “You are, you know, actually rubbish.”

Aziraphale’s grin is growing more and more strained but Crowley isn’t paying attention. Instead he whispers to himself: “Five, four, three, two...one.”

His watch strikes 3:00….

And nothing happens.

Well, a piece of cake soars through the air and it hits Aziraphale in the side of the face. That’s all it takes for the toppling tension to turn into full chaos. Children run towards the cake, grabbing handfuls to throw at their friends or unsuspecting guests. 

Normally, Crowley had a penchant for chaos like this. But this time, he just rolls his eyes and moves through the crowd, heart beating fast in his chest. Aziraphale glances up and happens to see Crowley slip out of the tent, and makes his quick escape to follow Crowley’s tight fast pace to the car. 

“It was all a bit of a disaster I’m afraid.” Aziraphale says as he catches up, trying to wipe cake off his coat.

“Nonsense. You gave them all a party to remember.” Crowley says as he opens the door to his Bentley. “Last one any of them will ever have, mind you.”

Aziraphale sighs, pulls off the coat after he opens the car door, and throws it in the back. After that, he slips in. “The hound. It’s late.”

Crowley nods silently as he pulls a phone out of his left pocket, his work phone. He taps one of the few numbers in the phone, and puts on the speaker as it rings. Aziraphale goes silent, watching the phone ring. 

Finally, a voice picks up on the other end. “ _ Hello Crawly _ .”

“Uh, hi. Who’s this?” Crowley speaks into the speaker. 

“ _ Dagon, Lord of the Files, Master of Punishments. _ ”

“...Yeah, just checking in about the hound.”

“ _ He should be with you by now.” _ Crowley and Aziraphale slowly turn to each other at that. “ _ Why? Has something gone  _ wrong,  _ Crawly? _ ”

Crowley snaps back into the conversation as Aziraphale checks behind them for eavesdroppers. “Wrong? No, no. Nothing’s wrong. What could be wrong?”

“Oh yes! I see him, yes!” Aziraphale turns back forward only to find the empty yard ahead of them. Yet Crowley continues speaking. “What a big, lovely...helly hound. Yes, okay, good to talk to you.” And with that, he hangs up and leans back. 

“No dog.” Aziraphale says finally. 

After a long pause, Crowley confirms it. “No dog.”

“Wrong boy.”

There’s no mirth anywhere on the Demon’s face as he says: “Wrong boy.” 

And then: “ _ Fuck. _ ”


	7. Don't Stop Me Now

**Chapter 7- Don’t Stop Me Now**

“ _ I’m burnin’ through the sky, yeah _

_ Two hundred degrees _

_ That’s why they call me Mister Fahrenheit _

_ I’m traveling at the speed of light  _

_ I wanna make a supersonic man out of you.” _

**Later on Wednesday**

**Three days until The End**

Soho is crowded even at this time of the day. Two officers in well-tailored suits remark this to themselves as they cross the street to an old bookshop squished among the other buildings of the district. Compared to all the other businesses in Soho, this one seemed so...ordinary. 

The bell rings as they step into the bookshop to see multiple patrons milling through the shelves. The first of the officers, Gabriel, leans down to inspect a large book, while his partner looks around. The bell draws the attention of the shop owner A.Z. Fell, who rounds the bookshelves. “Can I help you?”

Gabriel turns and Fell’s smile becomes forced as his captain speaks. “I would like to purchase one of your...books.” He holds up the rather large book. He gives Fell a knowing look. “Let us discuss my purchase in a private place, because I am buying, uh…..”

“Pornography?” His partner provides. 

His smile returns. “Pornography.”

Fell is now more than aware that the other customers are staring at the rather odd interaction. He must fix this. 

“Gabriel.” He gestures to the back of the shop. “Come into my back room.” The two men follow Fell out of sight. He lets the two other men in first, before shutting the door behind him. 

Gabriel laughs as he crosses to the table. “People are  _ so  _ gullible!” He slams down the book on cleaning onto the table, and Aziraphale gives a fake, faint smile, knowing that every patron had watched Gabriel pick the book up from the cleaning and self improvement section, which was on display this month. 

Instead, he merely laughs. “Yes.” He quickly lets himself settle and clears his throat. “Ahem, yes. Good job. You fooled them all.”

“You remember Sandalphon?” Aziraphale follows Gabriel’s pointing finger to the man standing behind him, gold tooth gleaming. 

“Ah yes.” Aziraphale says, nerves coiling. “You...you suppress the riots.”

Sandalphon grins wider. “One of the best.” He turns from them, examining the room, before his eyes land on the pack of cigarettes on the table.  _ Crowley’s cigarettes _ . 

“You smoke?” Sandalphon holds up the pack for both to see.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen as he feels Gabriel’s gaze on the back of his head. He sighs. “Yes, unfortunately a nasty habit I’ve yet to kick.”

Gabriel sighs, but waves it off. Sandalphon puts Crowley’s pack back on the table as Gabriel begins to speak. “Well we just wanted to stop by and check on the status of the Antichrist.”

Aziraphale tenses again, after having nearly missed blowing his and Crowley’s Arrangement. “Why? What’s wrong? I-I mean if there is something wrong, I could put my people onto it.”

Gabriel furrows his brow, but holds out his hands to calm his subordinate. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s going perfectly. There’s a lot happening. All good.”

Aziraphale does relax at that. “All good?”

“Well, all going according to plan.” Aziraphale restrains his expression as Gabriel continues. “The hound has been set loose, and now the Four Horsemen are being summoned. Death, Pollution, Famine,  _ War _ .”

“Right.” He chuckles softly, then asks an important question that has yet to be answered. “Who exactly summons them?”  _ And why a pack of terrorists?  _

Gabriel thinks for one moment, then blows his lips. “Not my department. I believe we outsource that sort of thing.”

“About time, that’s what I say.” Sandalphon speaks up from behind Aziraphale. “You can’t have a war without War.”

The other two stare at Sandalphon in stunned silence. Aziraphale’s brow begins to furrow at the same time as Gabriel begins to grin. 

“ _ Sandalphon _ , that is very good! ‘You can’t have a war...without  _ War.’ _ ” He gapes in awe, then points to Sandalphon. “I might have to use that. Huh?”

“Anyway…” Aziraphale looks back to Gabriel as he relaxes, staring at Aziraphale for a moment, then hurries forward. “No problems? How was the hound?” 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, shoulders stiffening as Gabriel slips past him. “I-I didn’t stick around to see.”

“Thank you for my pornography!” Gabriel shouts out into the shop before turning back to Aziraphale, laughing. Aziraphale manages a small smile back, that he quickly lets disappear. “Excellent job.” He then turns to Sandalphon. “You can’t have a war  _ without War _ .” He gapes and fist bumps Sandalphon’s shoulder. “Clever.”

Sandalphon chuckles stupidly at Aziraphale as he follows his captain out. Aziraphale’s expression fades into something solemn. 

They don’t know that he lost the boy. That may have bought him and Crowley some time. 

* * *

Crowley strides into his office, immediately reaching for the old phone as he leans against his desk. He picks up the receiver, and grimaces at the thought of calling his boss personally. What is he supposed to do,  _ tell him _ that he lost the boy? Not unless he has a death wish!

He slams the phone back down, and flops back into the throne he chose for this desk. It made him feel...powerful. And perhaps in a way he was, being the right hand man of the most powerful man in London. But that didn’t come without its own weaknesses. 

He reaches for the remote and flicks on the television. He never wears his glasses in the privacy of his own apartment, so it’s easier to see the news anchor and her guest on the screen.

“ _ Welcome back. Now, the government’s foreign affairs spokesman will be here to comment on the recent increase in international tensions. But first, do you know what’s in your fridge?” _

Crowley looks away, bored. When was the world not facing tension? When were countries not at each other’s throats anymore? America seemed to be getting at that, anyhow, perhaps the UK wanted to try and one up them. 

A shrill ringing jerks him out of his thoughts. With a furrowed brow, he pulls his work phone out of his jacket pocket and answers it. 

“ _ Morning, Crawly.”  _ Hastur voice scratches through the phone, and Crowley curls his lip. 

“ _ Just checkin’ in. _ ” Ligur says into the phone as well. 

“Hey guys.” Crowley attempts to sound nonchalant, but comes off tired. 

“ _ It’s about the Antichrist. _ ” Ligur gets straight to the point. 

“Yeah, great kid. Takes after his dad.”

_ “Our operatives in the State Department have arranged for the boy and his parents to be transported to Wesminister to see the Abbey.”  _ Hastur says. _ “The four horsemen will begin their final ride.” _

“Yay.” Crowley grits his teeth and shakes his fist.

“ _ Armageddon will begin. The final combat. It’s what we’ve been working towards since the beginning. We are the Demons. Never forget that.” _

“Well it’s not exactly something you forget.” Crowley retorts, one hand unconsciously going to the tattoo on the side of his face.

Hastur growls, and then whispers: “ _ I don’t trust you, Crawly. _ ”

“Everything’s going just fine.” He assures Hastur in his flawless lie. He hangs up before Hastur can say anything more, and sighs. 

“I didn’t mean to end up like this.” He mutters to himself. “I just hung around the wrong people.”

* * *

The postman from London wasn’t exactly sure how he’d ended up in the middle of this desert. Well, he did, the International Express Company sent him out here with four packages. The first package brought him out into what he is certain is a former warzone. 

Oh well. At least the company paid his airfare. 

And at least it is a  _ former _ warzone. Sometimes, despite everything, peace breaks out. 

The three groups that had been at war for so long were now gathered underneath the tent, the people circling their leaders and a British soldier. Peace circles the tent like a shield, so that most don’t even know it’s already been broken until the scarlet haired woman steps into the middle of the tent. There are shouts and exclamations from all sides as they pull out their guns. 

“Excuse me.” One of the leaders, a king, speaks up, “Who are you?”

“Carmine Zingiber.” The woman holds up her hands in surrender, but she doesn’t seem afraid. Rather...she’s amused. “National World Weekly. War correspondence.”

“Well, this is good, my friend.” The Prime Minister says to the left of the king in the middle. “It is good that a member of the world press is here to see us sign the peace accord.” 

Carmine laughs at that, but waves off the weird looks she receives.

“Right, well,” The British soldier begins, “if you’d like to sign this first, Your Highness, and then the Prime Minister, then the Supreme leader, then we’ll get a photograph of all three of you together.”

“Was that an intentional choice to have the King sign first?”

Before the British soldier can stutter out a stunned answer, the Prime Minister cuts in. “Wait, she’s right. He signs first?”

“It is just a formality who signs first.” The King hurries to appease. 

“A  _ formality _ ?” The Prime Minister spits. “You make me a laughingstock in my country, and you call that a formality?” Carmine watches with a small grin as the tensions rise among everyone surrounding her. 

The King laughs at that, before turning on the Prime Minister. “Somebody has to sign the peace agreement first!” 

“They do,” the Supreme Leader agrees, “and it’s me.” She snatches the pen from the peace keeper, but the moment she does, the King pulls out his gun to aim at her face. In response, the Prime Minister and Supreme Leader pull out their own guns, followed by shouts and the arming of their own people surrounding them. Everyone except Carmine, whose grin grows at the scene. 

“Oh, don’t mind me, ladies and gents.” The postman slips through a gap in the crowd, chuckling despite his nerves. He can’t help it; not with all these guns pointing at him. “Oh, what a day, eh? Nearly didn’t find the place. Someone doesn’t believe in signposts, eh?”

Everyone merely stares at him. And that’s when he notices the woman with the dark red hair. He pulls the package from beneath his arm and crosses to her. “Package for you, miss. You, uh...you have to sign for it.”

Her smile turns triumphant, and she pulls the pen from his front pocket. He tries to remain ram-rod still, the tension freezing him and everyone else in place. As she signs for it, he awkwardly looks around. “Well, it’s a lovely place you got here.” He takes the clipboard back from her and pockets the pen. “Yeah, I always wanted to come here on my holidays.” He gives Carmine a courtesy smile before handing over the long package, and quickly making himself scarce. 

Immediately, Carmine starts ripping off the tape. She reaches in, and pulls out an ancient sword. All weapons turn on her, but she ignores them. “Finally.”

“Put it down!” The Supreme Leader commands.

Carmine pulls the sword out of the sheath and gives it a test twirl. It’s just as perfect as she was promised! She grins at the Supreme Leader. “Oh, you sweet thing. That’s not gonna happen, is it? Sorry folks. I’d love to stay and chat, but duty calls.” And she lunges. 

Gunshots ring out and in a few short moments everyone (including the British soldier) have collapsed to the floor, dead by either gun or sword. Carmine sighs, throwing her hair back as she wipes the blade off on the fabric on a corpse. She sheaths it again and throws the sword on her shoulder before strutting away from the massacre. 

All through the town, battle begins again. A wall is blown apart to her left, but she isn’t fazed. How can she be? After all, she has been the instigator of many conflicts. An assassin, a thief, a politician, a small whisper in someone’s ear before they declare war for their precious oil and their precious gods. Carmine Zingiber may be her legal name, but to her it’s only a mask, an alias. Rather, she is the first of four, and she wears her name like a badge of honor. You can’t have a war without her. 

_ War. _

Her precious waiting is about to end. 

* * *

**Back in England**

A small moving van pulls to a stop in front of the empty cottage. The young American woman in front can’t help but lean forward to grin in awe at the cottage. As soon as they park, an older Anathema Device slips out and grabs her bicycle from the back and slowly walks it into the cottage, taking the time to look around at her new home. She might as well enjoy it a bit before she averts the end of the world and is able to return to America. 

Jasmine cottage is a little dusty, but holds so much life. Light streams in through the windows, and it is already mostly furnished. All that’s left is her luggage and her few boxes of work. 

“Just put it there.” She tells the moving man, gesturing to the counter. “Thanks so much.” 

She crosses to her counter, focusing on the box there. The moving man obeys, and she tries to make general conversation. 

“What a gorgeous village, huh?”

He merely nods and hands her final things. She gives a small thanks as he quickly leaves. As soon as he’s gone, she lifts the flaps of the box, and pulls out the most precious thing inside. 

Despite being centuries old,  _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnus Nutter _ still look practically new, embossed in green and gold. She sets it down on the counter, before turning to her maps. Gently, she attaches it to the wall before pinning known locations around Tadfield. Next to it, is the picture of Lucifer Morningstar. She’s known for years he was involved in this, and that one of his kin is involved in the end right beside him, so she’s researched everything she can about the man. Just in case. 

Now solemn, she slips on her glasses. “Right.” She says finally. “To work.”

* * *

Meanwhile in Dorking, Surrey, Newton Pulsifer is preparing for his first day of work. Again. 

“I just wanted to say, well, good luck on the new job.” His mother makes it down the steps before he does, and turns to watch him follow slowly, a box in his arms. “I hope it works out this time.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, mum.” 

“You’ve just been unlucky.” She follows him after he passes her to his car. He turns to her, and she passes him the container in her hands. “I made you sandwiches.” He smiles his thanks, before sliding his stuff in his car and climbing in himself. 

Not thirty minutes later, he’s being escorted to his new office. His escort wordlessly gestures to his desk before walking off. He sets the box down quietly and looks around his new workspace. In every direction, people are hard at work, making phone calls and filing paperwork on their computers.

_ Computers… _

Right. 

With a sigh, he slips into his seat. 

“And you are?” He looks up with a start to see a nosy woman peeking over their computers to examine him. 

“Newton Pulsifer.” He manages out. “Wages clerk. I’m new.”

She seems to accept that and sits down, leaving Newton to stare at the locked computer screen. This was a tricky situation, and he can only see it ending one way. Well, at least he could try another way.

“Excuse me.” He says finally, and his nosy neighbor peeks to him. “I was just wondering, is there a way I could do this without putting it in the computer?”

“Is there a way of accessing the wages database…” She scrunches her nose and her brow furrows, “Without using a computer?”

“Or maybe someone could print it out for me, and then I could do the sums on paper?” She looks even more aghast at that. Before she can answer, though, a loud clanging repeats throughout the workspace until everyone is silent, and the source of the noise, a man holding a coffee cup and a spoon, comes to a stop right next to Newton. 

“Okay.” The boss says finally. “Who’s excited by the new training initiative? Let’s see some hands. Yeah?” A few people raise their hands, Newton weakly among them. 

“Just so that you know, Norman.” A woman named Janice stands right in front of the boss, not looking at him, “I’ve registered a complaint with HR about this whole training initiative nonsense.”

The boss sighs, and turns to her. “It’s a team building exercise, Janice. And, um, just so as you know, there’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’, yeah?”

“But there’s two ‘i’s in ‘building’, Nigel.” Norman, an older man holding a cup of coffee, points out from across the room. Newton decides to ignore the oncoming argument, and begins to type in his login information. “And an ‘i’ in ‘exercise’.” 

“Yeah. Alright.” Nigel waves them off, starting to grow frustrated. “So, can I have everybody’s attention, please?” He sends a dirty look to Newton, who looks up sheepishly.

“Sorry, I’ve just got to hit return, and I’ll be with you.” He hits the key, and everything shuts off. The computers, the lights,  _ everything _ . He looks up to Nigel apologetically through the dark. “Sorry. Just not very good with computers.”

Minutes later, Newton finds himself walking back to his car, carrying his box of things. This happens everytime, though this was the quickest. He tries to keep taking deep breaths, not to get overly upset as he walks to his car. Coming from the opposite direction, a businesswoman glances at the back of his car, then at him, and says: “Need a hand,  _ dick? _ ”

“My name is not actually Dick.” Newton turns to tell her as she is already walking away. “It’s the car’s name.” She keeps walking. “You can ask me why, if you like.”

She doesn’t, of course, and his face falls. At that moment, the bottom of the box rips and everything inside crashes to the ground. He stares down to it, then stares up at the sky.  _ This is already shaping up to be a terrible day. _

He gathers his things and slides them in the back of Dick Turpin before beginning to wander London. Now that he was out of a job, he needed to find a new one  _ fast _ . Before his mum realized he had been fired again. He doesn’t want to face the  _ embarrassment _ …

His phone begins to vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out, and there she was. He bites his lip, and answers. “Hello mum.”

“ _ Hello dear. You must be on break by now. How’s the new job?” _

“The new job? Yeah, it’s going really well.” He lies through his teeth. “They’re great. They love me.”

Her next words, probably affirmation and pride for her son, are drowned out. 

“Walk past them with your noses in the air!” A man is shouting, and he can only guess what his mother is saying. A perfect excuse for Newton’s escape. 

“Bye mum.” He says hurriedly, before hanging up. He sighs, and slowly turns to the wiry man on the soapbox. His hair is white and disheveled like a mad scientist, and his form is hidden by a large trenchcoat. In his hand is a sign that reads: ‘WITCHES- BLIGHT CROPS/CAST THE EVIL EYE/DANCE NAKED (an abomination) WORSHIP THE DEVIL- HAVE TOO MANY NIPPLES/CALL THEIR CATS FUNNY NAMES’. So far, he is ignored, but that doesn’t seem to stop his tirade. 

“There’s only one thing you have to fear, you sissies, and it’s not global warming, and it’s not nuclear armageddon. Can anyone here tell me what it is?”

No one answers. Newton is staring, but the man doesn’t seem to notice or care as he steamrolls on. “Ha! You don’t answer. You don’t answer because you know it’s true! They are hidden in our midst! I’m the thin red line that stands between humanity and the darkness.” Newton can’t help but slowly grow closer, brow furrowed and intrigue growing. “Yea, I’m talking about-”

“Witches?” 

The old man blinks, as if just realizing someone had actually stopped to listen. “Aye, witches. They lurk behind a facade of righteousness. And there’s naebody can stop them…” He straightens, “but me.” 

Newton grows closer. “Tell me more.”

The old man steps down off the soapbox. “Ye wish to know more about the Witchfinders?”

“Witchfinders?”

The old man nods, setting down his sign. “We’ll talk over lunch.” He makes a beeline to the nearby food cart, and Newton feels as if he is pulled along by fate to follow the old man. 

The old man begins speaking once Newton catches up. “In the old days, Witchfinders were respected. Matthew Hopkins, Witchfinder General…” He laughs softly, “He used to charge each town and village ninepence for every witch he found. And they paid.” He grins at that, pointing at Newt, who stumbles for his next question. 

“Are you, um...are you a Witchfinder General?” 

“Oh, I am not.” He seems somewhat more solemn at that. “There is no longer a Witchfinder General. Nor is there a Witchfinder Colonel, a Witchfinder Major, not even a Witchfinder Captain. There is, however,” He digs for something in one of the trenchcoats of his pocket, “a Witchfinder Sergeant. And you’re looking at him.” He hands the business card to Newt, which reads: ‘ _ Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell’ _ .

“Well, pleased to meet you, Mr. Shadwell.”

Shadwell turns his attention to the vendor. “Uh, cup of tea. Nine sugars. And a packet of cheese and onion crisps.” 

“Coming right up.” Shadwell ignores the worker to glance to Newt, who is still staring down at his card. 

“Get your wallet out, laddie.” Newt looks up at that, brow furrowed. After a moment, he obeys and begins to pull out his wallet. “Bit of advice: you never want to appear tight fisted on first acquaintance.” As soon as the younger pulls out his wallet, Shadwell snatches a five pound note and passes it to the worker. 

“And it’s not Mr. Shadwell.” He continues, turning back to Newt. “It’s  _ ‘Sergeant’ _ . Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell.” He looks the boy up and down again. “What’s your name, lad?”

Despite everything that had happened in just the past couple of minutes, Newt still looks at the older man in a strange sort of fascination. “Erm, Newton. Newton Pulsifer.” 

Shadwell seems to do a double take. He quickly passes it over with a smile as if he were looking into the fond past. “Pulsifer? That’s a familiar name, now you mention it.” He chuckles and accepts the food from the worker. “You have your own teeth?”

Newt blinks at the absurd question. “Yes?” He reaches out for some of the change, but Shadwell pockets it before accepting the crisps and tea. 

“How many nipples have you got?”

“ _ What _ ?” 

“Nipples, laddie.” Now Shadwell is facing him dead on, gaze intense. “How many?”

“Um,” Newt looks down to his chest, suddenly self conscious. “Just the usual two.” 

“Okay.” Shadwell’s intensity fades at that and he moves his food and drink to one hand before digging through his coat. He finally pulls out a newspaper, and hands it to Newt. “Be here at 11:00 tomorrow. Bring scissors.” And like that, Sergeant Shadwell leaves, and Newt stares down at the odd ad, wondering what kind of a man he had just agreed to meet with. 

* * *

“Easy job.” Crowley seethes, still staring at the same brush of sunlight on his wall as he had been for the past hour. “Deliver the boy, keep an eye on him. Nice, straightforward job, eh?” His breathing picks up and he is hissing through his teeth. “Not the kind of thing any Demon is going to screw up, right? Especially Lucifer’s  _ pet _ .” He spits the word, before pushing himself up to his feet. 

He storms out of his office, and snatches up a mister before turning to the only things he devoted any real, personal attention to in his apartment: the tall, vibrantly green plants of his indoor paradise. Not long after he had started working for Lucifer and was making a decent amount of money, he had bought as many of the lavish plants he could, and began to read. He even found something about talking to plants to help them grow. So, of course, he talks to them. Just not in those soft, doting voices. 

He pauses in his inspection as a blemish catches his eye. 

“Is that a spot?” He asks in a dangerously soft voice. When the plants predictably don’t respond, he raises his voice. “ _ Is it? _ ”

He imagines the plants are shaking, and that helps fuel the flames of his anger. “Right, you know what I’ve told you all about leaf spots. I will  _ not stand for them _ !” He glares at each plant, as if he could see their leaves shaking in fear. That satisfies him enough for him to reach down and pick up the small plant, and look down on it. “You know what you’ve done. You’ve disappointed me.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

“Everyone!” He turns to face all of the plants, holding the disappointment in the air for them to ‘see’. “Say goodbye to your friend! He just couldn’t cut it.” 

He begins to make his way towards his kitchen, and he looks down at the plant. “This is going to hurt you... _ so much more _ than it is going to hurt me.” He turns back to the other plants. “And you guys,  _ GROW BETTER! _ ” 

Spit flies from his mouth at the outburst, but his anger has been appeased for the moment, so he leaves without another word. When he gets to the kitchen, he turns on the sink garbage disposal. It growls and wails as he holds the plant above the sink, but he can’t bring himself to dump it in. Rather, he stares at it for a long moment, before huffing and turning on his heel away from the sink. The garbage disposal is still running as he opens the window by his kitchen. He replants it gently next to the other plants of testament. 

“You got lucky.” He hisses, jabbing a finger at the plant. “Next time, you won’t be.” He slams the window shut, and he’s sure if plants could talk, he’s certain they would say that while the threats grow the most beautiful plants in all of London and put the fear of God- no- of  _ Crowley _ in all of them, their master was just a softie who couldn’t make good on his threats. But the thing he likes about plants is that they can’t talk, so that secret will remain with him. 

He switches off the garbage disposal, and strides back into the room. He looks around at them, before raising an eyebrow and the empty pot. The fear of Crowley, indeed. 

* * *

“The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter?” Aziraphale can hardly believe the request. Sure, his bookshop dealt in rare books, especially of prophecy, but  _ Agnes Nutter _ ? “I’m so sorry. I cannot help you.”

He scoffs at the lady’s exclaim. “Well, of course, I know who she was. Born 1600, exploded 1656. But there are no copies of her book available.”

She demands a price, and he stifles a sigh, instead closing his eyes as he politely insists. “No, I can’t name my price. I don’t have it. Nobody has-”

He breaks off at the slew, and his expression drops. “Well there really is no need for that language.” He says icily, and hangs up before she can respond. 

* * *

**The Next morning- Thursday**

**Two Days until the End**

At eleven in the morning, Newt rings the bell for 36A. It rings and echoes when he lets go, and he stares at the scrappy handwriting of Sergeant Shadwell. Out of all places, he expected to meet the Witchfinder at some secret coven, or even a rented out meeting place. Not...an apartment. Frowning, he rings the bell again, and hears footsteps on the other side. After a moment, the door opens, and a lady opens the door. She sees him, and pulls her silk robe over what was more than likely her underclothes, which was odd considering her makeup was done to make her look like a doll. He can’t help but go a little red in the cheeks. 

“Um...hello. I’m here about the advert? In the paper?”

“Well, Madame Tracy draws aside the veil every afternoon except Thursdays.” Her voice shows that she is slightly older than she looks, and she hides more of her body behind the door. 

“...I think there must be another advert.” 

She blinks, and gasps in recognition. “Oh right.” She opens the door for him, no longer shy about her robe. “Come in, dear. You’re lucky. One of my regulars had to cancel.” She closes the door behind him, and passes him towards the stairs. “Now, I don’t do anything kinky except by prior arrangement.” She sighs, and looks back to him. “And my knees aren’t what they were. Also, if it’s strict discipline you’ll be wanting, you’d better tell me now because it can take me half an hour to squeeze into the leather pinny.”

He stops at the stairs and stares at her, cheeks growing even warmer. “I’m sorry?”

She sighs. “Are you not here for personal intimate relaxation and stress relief for the discerning gentleman?”

He slowly shakes his head. “...no. I’m here to join the Witchfinder Army.”

At that, she immediately beams, all signs of their previous conversation wiped away. “Oh! Mr. Shadwell said he was expecting a visitor!” She leads the way up the stairs to a door at the end of the hall. ‘ _ Jerusalem’ _ is blaring from behind the door. She looks to Newt in sympathy. “It’s just been him for so long.” She knocks on the door, and waits, leaving Newt to fidget. 

The door flies open and Shadwell storms out. “Aye?”

“It’s your new recruit, Mr. Shadwell, look!” She gestures to Newt. 

He barely spares Newt a glance before turning on her. “Away with you, harlot! Scarlet woman! Jezebel!”

For a brief moment, Madame Tracy’s expression falls. Then, she bats her eyelashes at him and sighs softly. “Oh Mr. Shadwell.” She looks away, and says quietly. “I’ll bring you both some tea.” She looks to Newt, “Milk and sugar, dear?”

Before Newt can fumble for an answer, Shadwell calls: “He’s in the army now, Jezebel! He’ll make his own tea.”

The door closes behind Madame Tracy. He scoffs and tosses his head toward the door. Newt obediently shuffles in, and Shadwell slams the door behind them. Newt wanders towards the center of the room (which is crowded with papers and odd looking trinkets), and finds the tea kettle.

“Welcome to the Witchfinder Army, new recruit.” Newt turns to see Shadwell standing up straight, arms folded behind his back. He sets the kettle on the stove to heat up the water. “You are, as of now, Witchfinder Private Pulsifer.” Shadwell chuckles softly. “We used to be powerful. We used to be important.”

Newt opens the fridge, and nearly gags at the rotten smell from the fridge.

“Uh, condensed milk, lad.” Shadwell informs him. “And I take-”

“Nine sugars?”

“Exactly.” Shadwell answers, before continuing his speech. “We were the line of fire between the darkness and the poor unsuspecting folk who don’t believe in witches.” 

“But, Sergeant Shadwell.” Newt pipes up from the kitchenette. “Don’t the churches do that these days?”

Shadwell wrinkles his nose. “ _ Nay _ , laddie. Against the darkness?” He chuckles. “It’s a war. And you know what our first weapon is?”

Newt slowly points to the glass case behind Shadwell, which held a large, scary looking gun. Shadwell turns to it, before laughing. 

“Oh! The Thundergun of Witchfinder Colonel “Get ‘em before they get you” Dalrymple? Nay, laddie.” He walks towards it, examining the glass. “That’ll never be used again. Not in this degenerate age.”

Newt pulls out the scissors from his jacket.

“ _ Very _ good.” He laughs and approaches Newt again. “And you know what we do with them?”

Newt grimaces as he grips the handle like a knife and pretends to stab someone repeatedly.

Shadwell does not laugh at this, instead he bites back a sigh. “No, lad.” He walks over to the chair and grabs part of the pile of papers as the kettle begins to whistle. “We read.” He slams down the papers on the table, which has instructions attached to the top. “And we cut.” 

* * *

Crowley is brought back from his post-rage haze as the phone in his office begins to ring. It’s shrill tone draws his attention and he practically slithers back into the office just in time for the call to go to voicemail on his ancient answering machine. 

_ “Hey, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style.” _ The machine beeps and a fumbling, familiar voice answers.

“ _ No leads yet my end.” _ Aziraphale begins, unaware that Crowley was listening, standing at the desk and glaring down at the answering machine. “ _ Anything at your end? ….Listen, I have sort of an idea-” _

Crowley snatches up the phone and answers harshly. “What?”

_ “Ah, hello. _ ” Aziraphale says hurriedly before continuing.  _ “When you did the baby swap eleven years ago, could something have gone wrong?” _

His heart races up his throat as his mind tears through the implications. “What?”

* * *

Crowley swerves around a car in London traffic, not even slowing when the car honks at him. His shades are on, so all Aziraphale can sense is his frustration. 

“You’ve lost the boy-”

“ _ We’ve  _ lost him.”

Aziraphale gives him a placating hand. “A child has been lost. But you still know his age-”

“ _ We _ know.”

“His birthday.” Aziraphale continues over him. “He’s eleven.”

“You make it sound easy.” Crowley remarks with one hand on the wheel. 

“Well it can’t be that hard.” He looks out the window at the blurs of cars. “I just hope nothing’s happened to him.”

“Happened? Nothing’s happened to him!” Crowley retorts, looking at Aziraphale. “He happens to everything!”

Aziraphale’s breath catches as they narrowly avoid a car, and he has to try and calm himself as he continues. “So, we only have to find his birth records. Go through the hospital files.” He nods to himself.

“And then what?”

“And then we find the child.”

“ _ And then what _ ?”

Aziraphale’s hopeful smile that had appeared fades, and he happens to look over before shrieking and grabbing for the wheel. “Watch out for that pedestrian!” 

Crowley honks, and swerves around the woman. Aziraphale grabs for the top of the car. “She’s on the street, she knows the risk she’s taking!”

“Just watch the- watch the road!” 

Crowley wrinkles his nose and mimics Aziraphale under his breath, reminding him of an old bickering couple, but he obeys. Aziraphale takes loud, deep breaths, and smooths himself out. 

“Where is this hospital anyway?”

“Village near Oxford. Tadfield.” 

“Crowley, you can’t do ninety miles per hour in Central London!” Aziraphale points to the speedometer. Crowley takes his hands off the wheel and shrugs. 

“Why not?”

“You’ll get us killed! Or at least, in a nasty wreck!” Aziraphale waves his hand off at that, and sighs. “Imagine the mess that would get us into.”

Crowley doesn’t answer to that, but his frown deepens. 

“Music.” Aziraphale decides. “Why don’t I put on some music?” He reaches over into the compartment, rifling through album after album by Queen ( _ News of the World, Innuendo, Sheer Heart Attack, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road [not Queen, but Crowley won’t listen to it anymore], Best of Queen Volume One…) _ before a distinctly not-Freddie Mercury based album catches his eye. He snatches it up, and examines it.  _ The Very Best of The Velvet Underground… _ “What’s a Velvet Underground?”

“You wouldn’t like it.” Is all Crowley says. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale sighs in agreement, before filing it away. “Bebop.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose at the rather false generalization about The Velvet Underground, but doesn’t respond as he veers around another car. Aziraphale gasps as one hand clutches at his heart, and the other at the top of the car. This was going to be a  _ long  _ drive for his poor heart.

* * *

**Back to Wednesday**

**Tadfield, Young Residence**

Diedre Young is finishing the last touches on the birthday cake as her husband comes in. 

“He’s not back yet?” 

She shakes her head, smiling down at the script: “ _ Happy Birthday, Adam _ ”. “He’s down in Hogback Wood, playing with his friends. I’ve told him to be home by teatime.”

“Right,” Mr. Young relaxes at that with a sigh, “Well, give me a shout when he gets back, then we can light the candles.” He snatches a topping, and ignores her small exclaim as he pops it in his mouth with a small grin. 

* * *

The boy they speak of, in fact, is playing in the woods with his friends. After all, it was his birthday. The group of friends called themselves the Them, and Hogback Wood was their own little world, which they ruled. 

Pepper strikes down Brian with a final  _ thwack _ of her wooden sword, standing over him. The other sword slides out of his hand, and Wensleydale looks up from his balance of stones and acorns, and their leader Adam laughs from his makeshift throne. The other three cease their play and climb up the hill towards Adam, unaware that a pair of beady black eyes are watching them from the trees. 

“Thanks for a wonderful birthday!” He settles back into the throne and grins. 

“Of course.” Wensleydale says, pushing up his glasses. 

“You’re our friend.” Brian adds. 

“What do you think you’re going to get for your birthday?” Pepper asks. 

Adam doesn’t even think about it. “A dog.”

Pepper shakes her head. “Your parents aren’t going to get you a dog!”

“It’s my birthday. Of course I’m gonna get a dog.”

“You never get what you want!” Pepper complains as she picks up the forgotten crown. She examines it. “I wanted a bike, and I  _ asked _ for it. And I told them I wanted a razor blade saddle, and 12 gears, and everything. And do you know what they got me?” Her expression turns sharp. “A  _ girl’s  _ bike. With a basket.”

Wensleydale’s brow furrows at that. “But you are actually a girl, Pepper.”

She turns on him. “That’s just sexist!”

“I  _ want _ a dog.” Adam reiterates. 

“Oh right.” She rolls her eyes. “And your mum and dad are just going to get you a big old Rotten-weiler then, Adam?”

He wrinkles his nose at that, as if it were the most ridiculous idea in the world. “I don’t want a big dog. I want the kind of dog you can have fun with. A little dog.” His gaze grows distant. “I want a dog that’s brilliantly intelligent, and can go down rabbit holes and I can teach tricks. And I’ll call him…”

He thinks about it for a long moment. From the trees, the beady eyes begin a deep growl which seems to vibrate within the trees, the leaves, and the soles of the childrens’ shoes, waiting…

“I think I’ll just call him Dog.” The growl stops abruptly at that. “Saves a lot of trouble with a name like that.”

“And what? A dog like that is just going to turn up?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

The light on the creature’s collar beeps, confirming a name, and it charges into the light. 

Adam looks up at the shrill barking, turning just in time to see a small black and white dog bound down the hill. He slowly rises, unbelieving of his eyes as the dog runs closer and closer. “Here boy. Come on!”

The dog obeys, running into Adam’s arms. It’s small and friendly, licking at Adam’s chin. The boy laughs and begins to pet his flank. The dog practically melts in his hands, rolling over onto his belly. Adam is so absorbed in his discovery that he fails to notice the brown leather collar, or the looks of confusion and awe his friends are exchanging at the sudden appearance of the dog. 

The Hound has found it’s Master, and has been named. The Demons and Angels of London have been alerted. Armageddon is set to begin.


	8. Save Me

**Chapter 8- Save Me**

_ “Save me, save me, save me! _

_ I can’t face this life alone. _

_ Save me, save me, save me! _

_ I’m naked, and I’m far from home.”  _

**Thursday**

**Two days until the End**

“This is the Tadfield area.” Aziraphale remarks, looking around the wooded countryside. “Does it look familiar yet?”

“...You know, it does.” Crowley peers around. “I think there’s an air base around here somewhere.”

Aziraphale straightens from where he had been peering, too. “Airbase?”

“Well you don’t think American diplomats’ wives usually give birth in little religious hospitals in the middle of nowhere, do you?” Aziraphale doesn’t answer so he continues. “No, it all had to seem to happen naturally. Since there was an air base at the southern end of Tadfield, we set it all into motion there. Things started to happen, base hospital wasn’t ready to deliver a baby…”

“So you suggested the hospital?”

“Well...not me. But our man there pointed everyone in that direction.”

“...’Your man there’?”

Crowley steals a glance to Aziraphale. “You’re surprised?”

“Well, shouldn’t the American government have a close eye on their men? Like make sure none of them have a criminal background?”

Crowley snorts at that. “Have you ever met an American? Especially one in politics?” 

Aziraphale says nothing to that, delegating instead to glare out the window. 

“It was rather good organization.” Crowley says finally.

“Flawless.” Aziraphale retorts sarcastically.

“It should have worked.”

“Ah, but evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction.”

“I swear you were a priest in your past life when you get like this.” Crowley mutters.

Aziraphale acts as if he hadn’t heard him. “No matter how well-planned, how foolproof an evil plan, no matter how apparently successful it may seem upon the way, in the end it will founder on the rocks of iniquity and vanish.”

The drive in silence for a few moments as Aziraphale steadies his breath from his impassioned speech. Finally, Crowley says: “I’d bet money it was an ordinary fuck-up.”

Aziraphale gives him a doubtful look at that, but says nothing more. Crowley follows the sign around the town and down the dirt road. They sit in tense silence before Crowley pulls to a slow stop in front of a large building and courtyard. The gates were covered in moss, both note as Aziraphale takes the path and Crowley crosses the grass (mainly to spite the former).

Aziraphale frowns at the worn appearance. “Um, are you sure this is the right place? This...doesn’t look like a hospital.” Crowley stops when Aziraphale grabs his arm. 

Crowley is glad his shades cover his face, because his heart is pounding fast, and it isn’t from the seemingly abandoned church. “No, it’s definitely the place. And it’s not that bad.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods, and begins walking again, pulling out of Aziraphale’s grip. Aziraphale huffs and hurries to catch up with him. Neither of them realize they’re being watched until….

_ CRACK! _

Aziraphale jumps as the shot barely skims his coat and Crowley screams, “ _ FUCK!”  _ He stumbles back clutching his chest.

Aziraphale twists around to find the mark on his white jacket, and doesn’t find a hole. “Blue…?”

“Aw fuck! I’ve been shot!” Crowley screams, bent over. 

“Will you stop swearing?” Aziraphale hisses. “We are in a church!”

Crowley glares up at him. “Really? I’ve been shot in this  _ bloody _ church, and all you can care about it is  _ my language _ ?”

“Just look at your hand!” He huffs.

Crowley slowly pulls away his hand, then straightens with a furrowed brow. He examines his hand. “Oh, it’s paint.”

“Hey!” A voice shouts and both turn to see a man in a camo uniform run up to them. “You’ve both been hit!”

Aziraphale steals a glance at Crowley, expecting him to blow up on the man. Instead, he grins. “Well, that’s one way to talk to your benefactor for your replacement equipment!”

The man pauses. “Benefactor?”

He nods. “I got some stuff for you all in the car. I was just looking for signs of life.”

“Well...go get it!” The man exclaims. “I’ll call everyone!”

Crowley nods. “Come on, Fell.”

Aziraphale blinks at the old alias, but follows Crowley back to the Bentley. “That’s awfully kind of you.” He comments once they’re out of sight. “Perhaps too kind."

Crowley lets his glasses slide down his nose so his heterochromatic gaze showed to Aziraphale. “Why do you say that?"

“You were just cussing up a storm about being shot, and now everything is okay?” 

Crowley looks over Aziraphale’s shoulder, and his eyes catch on the blue paint. “He got you, too.”

This distracts Aziraphale just as planned. He twists to see it again, and begins to fuss. “Look at the state of this coat! I’ve kept this coat in tip top shape for years! Oh, I’ll never be able to get this stain out.”

Crowley grimaces as he peers at it. “I’m sure it’ll come out.”

“Well, yes…” Aziraphale pouts, and Crowley finds it heart wrenchingly breathtaking. “But I would always know it’s there.” He pouts down at his shoes, twisting one into the dirt.

Crowley walks straight into the ploy, like the absolute lovesick fool he is. He sighs, and holds it out his hand. When Aziraphale looks up and merely stares at his hand, he says. “Hand it over. I’ll get dry cleaned.”

“Really?” Aziraphale’s expression immediately lifts as he begins to slip off the coat. Crowley looks away. “Oh, thank you.”

“Uh-huh.” Crowley takes it as he opens the back car door, and folds the jacket in the seat. Then, he reaches to the floor, and pulls out two duffle bags. He kicks the door closed, and begins back towards the church. “Let’s go.”

Aziraphale hurries to follow, finally able to catch up as Crowley stops and drops the bags at the other man’s feet. “Here.” Crowley says. “Enjoy.”

The man says something, perhaps out of thankfulness, but Crowley ignores him and keeps walking. Aziraphale nods to him as he passes before catching up with Crowley. 

The church seems to be...renovated, is the best word Aziraphale can come up with. Instead of ornate chandeliers and humble crosses, there are signs about guns, and tables holding waters and extra paintball equipment. 

“This is definitely the place.” Crowley notes, examining their surroundings, “Wonder where the nuns went.” A sign on the wall notes that United Worldwide Holdings had rented out the building for the day.

Aziraphale looks at the camouflage netting against the wall. “I don’t think there are any nuns.”

“Maybe they run a paintball course on the side.” Crowley picks up a brochure, flips through it for a moment, before tossing it to the side. “Nothing.”

The two continue on in silence until a pair of footsteps echo closer and closer. 

“Oh, Millie from Accounts caught me in the elbow!” A woman comes up beside the two. “Who’s winning?”

“You’re all going to lose.” Is all Crowley says. Before the woman can ask him what exactly he means, the sound of gunfire pulls her attention and she runs back out into the fray. 

Aziraphale stares at Crowley in wide-eyed horror. “What did you  _ do _ ?”

Crowley continues strolling. “Remember that bank hijack from a week or so ago? Central London?”

“The one you confirmed was Demonic work? Yes.”

“Well...my boss may have told me to dump the evidence somewhere.”

Aziraphale stops walking for a short moment, then hurries to catch up with Crowley as the gunfire begins again.

“There are people out there shooting at each other! Someone could be  _ killed _ !”

Crowley kicks a door open, and grins when he hears glass shatter, despite seeing no one inside. “Perhaps.”

Aziraphale gapes at him, chasing after him. “Are you telling me you don’t even  _ care _ that people could be out there taking each other’s lives? They’re murdering each other!”

Crowley finally stops, slowly turning back to Aziraphale. He sighs. “No, they aren’t killing each other. The guns were not the only things I was supposed to drop off somewhere. The reasons those Demons at the heist were unstoppable was because they had bullet proof suits. Plenty of those for a whole team of paintball shooters. Wouldn’t be any fun otherwise. Happy?”

Aziraphale can’t help his smile as he steps closer. Crowley doesn’t move from his spot next to the window, face impassive. “You know, I’ve always said that deep down, you really are quite a nice-”

Crowley’s face contorts and before Aziraphale can blink, his head slams against the wall and Crowley is holding him up by the collar. His hidden gaze is just centimeters from his face. “Shut it!” Aziraphale can’t help but let his gaze rove down to where Crowley’s soft-looking lips have pulled back into a fierce snarl. “I’m a Demon! I’m not nice! I’m never nice! Nice is a four-letter word…”

Aziraphale stops paying attention to Crowley’s tirade at that, still staring at Crowley’s lips and thinking of the first time Crowley actually admitted he is a Demon and acted just the opposite…

* * *

**1989**

There’s a light beaming against his closed eyelids. It’s growing stronger with each passing second, in time with the pounding of his head that rings in his skull. 

Crowley groans as he pries his eyes open, then hisses as he’s forced to cover them from the light streaming through the blinds. His damp curls fall over his eyes as he tries to hide his face into the couch cushion. 

_ Wait a moment. _

His mind foggily catches up as he reaches for his damp, surprisingly  _ clean _ , hair. He examines it with a frown before he looks down to the couch cushion. It’s not a pattern he recognizes, and  _ heaven above _ it’s bloody  _ tartan _ …

He slowly pushes himself up on his arms, biting back a grunt as his arms shake. The taste of vomit is still on his tongue, but all he does is grimace as he feels a blanket slide down his back. Frowning, he slowly rolls over to realize he’s bare chested. In fact, as he throws up the blanket, he’s almost  _ completely naked! _ Crowley gasps and pulls the blanket back over his body. As he breathes hard, he looks around and examines the dusty surroundings and surfaces with books piled everywhere…

“What the bloody hell?” He mumbled as he squints. 

“Oh, you’re awake.” Crowley jumps, and clutches the blanket tighter as his head snaps to the voice. Fell is standing there, clutching a mug in a shabby sweater and trousers. Crowley is slack-jawed between the ebbing exhaustion and the frankly endearing image he thought he’d never see. “Wasn’t sure when you would wake.” 

Crowley nods, and leans back against the couch. That simple movement makes his head pound and he winces as he cups his head. “What...what happened?”

“I’m afraid I forced you to drink quite too much last night. That was utterly horrible on my part, I should not have done that.”

And like that, everything comes back.  _ Everything _ . 

“Aw,  _ shit _ .” He groans, covering his eyes. “Surprised I’m not sporting more than a hangover.” 

“Well, you were covered in your own sick last night. And I didn’t know where you lived and you were barely conscious enough to walk, let alone give an address. So I brought you to my flat. I apologize for the invasion of privacy.” Fell steals a glance to the small sliver of Crowley’s scrawny chest that is visible, before hurriedly looking away, busying himself with finding a place to set down his mug. “I was not sure you’d be pleased to wake up in your own vomit, so I washed you off. A-and your clothes should be about dry by now.”

Crowley fights to push down the blush at the thought of Fell dragging a limp Crowley into the shower, forcing him to stay upright, stripping him of his clothes…. “Right.” 

Fell nods, setting down his mug. His hands begin to fidget, and he steals a glance towards Crowley. 

“Right.” Fell echoes. “I’ll uh...get you some water.”

Like that, Fell hurries out of the room. Crowley blinks, trying to process what the hell just happened. He was in the flat of an officer for the Metropolitan Police. He wasn’t dead. As far as he can tell, nothing is broken or missing. 

He’s...okay?

He doesn’t understand. 

Slowly, he rises to his feet. He pulls the blanket over his shoulders, and slowly follows Fell into the kitchen. The man is leaning over the sink, trying to take deep breaths. After a moment, his hand digs into his pocket before pulling out a packet of cigarettes. He quickly lights it, and sighs as he takes a drag. 

“Mind if I bum a smoke?” Fell jumps and turns to see Crowley standing there.He doesn’t seem to think as he holds out the packet. Crowley mumbles his thanks as he takes one and places it between his teeth. He grips the blanket in one fist as the other grabs the lighter and lights the cigarette. The rush of nicotine soothes him as he sighs, a cloud of smoke exhaling through his teeth.

Fell cannot look at him. He stares at the window as he slowly smokes.

“Erm, Fell,” the man finally looks to him. Crowley puffs out some more smoke and merely holds the cigarette between two fingers. “About last night...I’d like to apologize.”

“For what...Crawly?”

Crowley doesn’t miss the hesitation in his codename, but doesn’t mention it. “For kissing you.”

Fell focuses on his cigarette almost too intently. “Oh.”

“Well, I hadn’t even asked before I started. Just assumed you were looking for some...relief as well. But it was just a mission, just to get some information out of me...right?”

Fell looks at him for a long moment. “Of course.” He says finally. “Just a mission.” He takes another drag. 

Crowley looks down to the tile floor beneath his bare feet. “So.” He sighs finally. “Should I expect an arrest to be made soon, Officer Fell?”

Fell pauses, before reaching over to squish his cigarette into the ashtray on the counter. “I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you.” He admits, wiping his hands clean before meeting Crowley’s gaze. “My name’s not actually AZ Fell. I am actually Detective Constable Aziraphale Pritchard. And as for turning you in yet…” He looks out the window, “I’m not sure.”

“Aziraphale, huh?” Crowley raises an eyebrow as he leans against the countertop. “Interesting name. Fits you. But why not arrest me? I’m a criminal, aren’t I?”

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale seems unsure what to do with his hands. “But if you’re arrested, we can’t get any information from you, can I?”

Crowley stiffens at that. “What do you mean?”

“You said it yourself last night, didn’t you? ‘He’ was going to kill you. My men and I would like to know who this ‘he’ is. Who you work for.” He actually begins to examine his nails against the counter. “I actually have a deal for you.”

“A deal?”

Aziraphale nods. “You tell me who you work for, and you can walk free under the pretense that you were coerced into the murder.”

Crowley’s hand holding the cigarette shakes. “I can’t do that.” He says automatically.

Aziraphale looks to him with raised eyebrows. “You’d rather be arrested?”

“You’re putting me in a lose-lose situation.” Crowley puts out his cigarette and drops the blanket. Damn it, he’s willing to walk out of here in his  _ underpants _ if he must. “I need to get out of here.”

“Wait!” Despite every intent to ignore the detective, Crowley stops, and looks back. Aziraphale retrieves the blanket, wringing it in his hands. He sighs. “What must I do in order for you to agree?”

Crowley doesn’t say anything, so Aziraphale continues. “Look, I’d prefer not to arrest you. Rather seems like you got mixed up in things you weren’t truly aware of. Doesn’t seem fair to me that you go back to prison.”

Crowley looks away, folding his arms over his chest. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“What?”

“If you tell  _ anyone _ …” He sighs. “It’s very easy to track a mole in a system, especially the one I work for. It would not take long for my boss to find me and make sure I was...taken care of. They’ve already done it once. They have no hesitations about doing it again.”

He hears Aziraphale slowly pad closer to him, stopping just feet away. 

“Okay.” He says finally, softly. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Crowley steals a glance to him, searching for sincerity and finding it. He sighs, shoulders drooping. 

“You were right.” He says finally. “I was in prison before. Imagine that was on my record, too. Hard to find a job with a record, not many will take you. But they knew that. The day I was let out on parole, they picked me up. Offered me a job. Of course, I accepted.”

“Who offered it to you?”

He sighs again. “Mr. Lucifer Morningstar.”

“ _ Morningstar?” _ Aziraphale breathes. “I didn’t know the Morningstar company had any connections to the criminal underworld.”

“Of course they do!” Crowley hisses, looking around. “He practically runs the place. Those of the underworld call him the Devil. He and his Demons run practically everything his company touches.” 

Aziraphale’s wide eyes meet his. “ _ You’re a Demon _ .”

“ ‘Course.” Crowley shrugs. “I drive for them. Used to do a lot of...tamer jobs. But I guess I made a name for myself, ‘cause when Mammon was captured, I was brought in.”

“Mammon…” Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “But he’s dead...he killed himself in his cell.”

“It wasn’t suicide.” Crowley says softly, “I can tell you that much.

“This was my first job. He said that if I got it done without being caught, the job was mine. If I failed…” Crowley shudders. “I could expect to end up like Mammon. I didn’t know there was a bomb in that basket. I didn’t understand how I recognized that couple...until it was too late.” 

Aziraphale has gone silent. When Crowley glances over, he’s looking down at his hands in horror. 

“...Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale looks up and blinks. “Sorry. Um…” He looks around. “Y-your clothes should be done in the dryer. You can go.”

“...I can?”

He nods. 

“Are you going to report me?”

He shakes his head this time. “No, I won’t tell anyone. You have my word.”

“Don’t know if that’s supposed to make me feel better…” Crowley mumbles, but nods with a sigh. “Okay. Well...thank you, I suppose.” 

Before Aziraphale can respond, Crowley leaves the room. Within minutes, Crowley is dressed and out the door. His shades are missing, probably long gone after last night, so his gaze is exposed everytime he glances back to the flat. Once, he sees Aziraphale peeking through the window. They meet gaze, and the detective quickly closes the curtains, and disappears from sight.

* * *

**Present**

**Two days until the End**

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” A woman’s voice stops Crowley, and he looks to the woman rapidly approaching them in business attire. Must be the owner. “Sorry to break up an intimate moment. Can I help you?” 

Crowley has not stopped staring, and the woman slows to a stop at the sight of him. Aziraphale notices the cross around her neck, the way she clutches at it when she sees Crowley. 

“ _ You. _ ” Crowley growls. 

“Christ above, it’s Master Crawly!” She begins to quickly back away. Crowley drops Aziraphale and stalks towards the woman as if he were a snake ready to snap at its prey. Her back hits the wall, and she’s forced to stare up at him. Her breathing is fast, and eyes wide. 

Aziraphale sighs loudly, and approaches. “Now really, Crawly! That wasn’t necessary.”

Crowley’s head snaps to him, giving the woman a view of Aziraphale as well. “She...she’s a nun!”

“Was.” The former nun interrupts. Crowley glares at her, and she goes silent again.

“She’s the one I gave the child to! She’s the one that lost him!”

“What are you talking about?” She cries out. “I never lost a child!”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale mutters, and slips in front of Crowley, forcing him to lean out from behind him to see her. He gives her a gentle smile. “What’s your name?”

“M-Mary.”

“Hello, Mary. So sorry my friend alarmed you. We just have a couple questions concerning this hospital and some events that happened about eleven years ago.”

She slowly nods, still stealing glances towards Crowley. 

“You weren’t by any chance a nun here eleven years ago?”

She nods again. “I was. Master Crawly was right about that.”

Aziraphale nods as well, and starts to ask another question but Crowley cuts him off. “What happened to the baby I gave you?”

“I swapped him with the son of the American ambassador, just like you said to. He...he was such a nice man. He used to be an ambassador to Swindon.”

Aziraphale throws a look back at Crowley at that, slowly mouthing. ‘Swindon…?’

Crowley seems just as confused as he is, but the woman continues. “T-then Sister Garrulous came and took the other baby away.”

“Other baby?” Aziraphale asks, and she nods.

“The wife had just given birth, and part of the instructions were to switch the two out. I had to do it while in the room because one of the nuns didn't follow instructions. Made my job so much harder…”

“What did you do with the baby?” Crowley presses, voice raising. 

“I don’t know!” Mary shrinks back. Aziraphale waves Crowley back. 

“Records.” Aziraphale says finally once they’ve both calmed down. “There must have been records!”

She nods. “Loads of records.”

“Okay…” He rubs his hands together. “Where could we find them?”

Her expression fades at that, and she draws in her shoulders. “All burned in the fire. Not long after the child had been sent away, one of the Demons from their ruler ordered us to disband, before setting the church ablaze.”

Crowley growls, stalking off to the side. “Hastur! That bastard!”

“Ignore him.” Aziraphale tells her gently as she tenses. “Is there anything you remember about the baby? Anything at all?”

She thinks for a long moment. Aziraphale waits patiently, and Crowley has finally calmed down enough to return when she smiles faintly. 

“He had lovely little toesie-woesies.”

Aziraphale smiles fondly at that. “How wonderful.”

Crowley’s expression is full of hard lines. “Let’s go.” He only says that before storming out. 

Aziraphale sighs before turning to Mary. “Thank you very much for the information. I hope you have a blessed day.”

She nods, and Aziraphale takes off after Crowley. Only then does he realize that the gunfire has ceased, and he can hear sirens just outside. He gets to the door to see Crowley is still going, slipping through the police unseen. He bites back yet another sigh before hurrying out after him, praying he isn’t noticed. 

Luckily, no one spares him a second glance, and no one calls out to him as he makes it to the Bentley, where Crowley is leaning against the side, glaring into the woods.

“That was useless!” He retorts to himself as he pulls open the driver’s side and slides in. Aziraphale follows on the passenger, watching as he jams the keys in. 

“Not entirely.”

“Oh yeah? How?” He slams on the gas and they take off. Aziraphale clings to the arms of his seat. 

“I…” He fumbles for an answer. He shakes his head. “Is there maybe another way of locating him?”

“How am I supposed to know? This sort of thing only happens once, you know!” He slams on the horn and swerves around a car going too slow. Aziraphale is hanging on for dear life. “I do know one thing. If we don’t stop this, it’ll be a war to end  _ everything. _ ”

Aziraphale tuts as he lets go of the car. “You’re overexaggerating. While I agree we should stop it, this fight won’t destroy  _ everything _ . Just London.”

Crowley growls, taking a turn sharply. “You just don’t understand!”

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say to that, so he looks down at his hands. A long beat of silence passes, before Crowley inhales deeply and sighs. 

“I’m sorry.” He says finally, voice quieter. “I shouldn’t yell at you. That’s wrong of me.”

“It is.” Aziraphale agrees simply.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it won’t be everything.”

Aziraphale looks down at his hands. “Oh, I hope so.” He says softly. “I hope so.”


	9. Crazy Little Thing Called Love

**Chapter 9- Crazy Little Thing Called Love**

_ “I gotta be cool,  _

_ Relax, _

_ Get hip, _

_ And get on my track’s  _

_ Take a back seat, _

_ Hitch-hike _

_ And take a long ride on my motorbike _

_ Until I’m ready _

_ Crazy little thing called love.” _

**Earlier that day**

**Two days until the End**

Anathema frowns as she examines the map, pendulum swinging from one hand. The boy was supposed to be in Tadfield with the ferocious beast of a hound, but this had led her into the forest before beginning to swing aimlessly. Her map is full of red x’s, and her brow furrows as she continues forward. Surely he’s here somewhere…

The dog barking causes her to jump, dropping her book from her hands. Her head snaps towards the sound to find a troupe of kids marching towards her, one wearing a long pointy hat and a staff.

She manages a small smile and hurriedly snatches up her book before straightening. “Hey guys.”

“Hi!” The girl of the group greets as they grow closer. She realizes that most of them are carrying sticks. A boy near the back is wearing a long flannel jacket, and walking a small mutt.

_ Hm, not that ferocious. Must just be a coincidence.  _

“Nice hat.” She comments.

“Actually,” the boy wearing it begins, “we made it out of cardboard. It’s for our game.” And they keep walking. She slides her book under her arm and hurries after them. 

“Stylish. What kind of game?”

“We’re the Spanish Inquisition.”

“ _ No, _ dummy!” The girl turns on her heel to him, making everyone stop.

“We’re the  _ British  _ Inquisition.” Another boy adds, this one holding a stick made into a spear. “Because we can’t say  _ ole _ .”

“Come on, Wensleydale!” The girl grabs the boy with the witch’s hat by the wrist, and pulls him along. 

“Sounds like fun.” Anathema comments as they continue walking again. “How does the game work?”

“I’m Chief Inquisitor.” The boy in the flannel says finally. “Brian is head torturer, and we’re trying to find a witch.”

Anathema pauses in her tracks for a moment.  _ Oh... _ that  _ inquisition _ . 

“Oh.” She continues her pace, as if nothing happened. “Sounds very sensible.” 

“I agree.” The boy says, then points his stick at Wensleydale. The girl grabs the smaller boy. “Art thou a witch?”

“Ole!” Brian adds, pointing his spear as Pepper shakes Wensleydale. 

He holds up his hands weakly, before squeaking: “Yes?”

The girl lets go of him with a sigh. “You can’t say yes! You’ve got to say  _ no! _ ”

“But then I would be lying!”

“That’s the point of the game! Witches always lied when they were asked.”

“Okay, fine!” Wensleydale relents. “Now what?”

“Then we torture you until you say yes!” The ‘Chief Inquisitor’ grins, and Anathema’s heart drops. They were carrying sharp sticks, including their ‘head torturer’!

“Wait, you’re going to  _ torture  _ him?”

“We built a torturing machine.” The boy replies, still grinning despite her tone, and he takes the lead on the path. She tries to force a small grin, but it feels like it is already melting away. This boy could very well be the son of Lucifer! 

Should she call the police?   
The boy leads them to a tire swing tied to the tree branch, and instantly those thoughts disappear. It’s just a game...that’s all.

“It looks like a swing.” She points out.

“No it’s not.” The boy responds. “It’s our torture machine for anyone we suspect is a witch.”

“But obviously, in this situation,” Wenslydale says as he climbs into the swing, “I actually am a witch. I have a big pointy hat, we have a cat at home, a-and I borrowed mum’s broom.”

“Look,” the girl says testily from the side, “no one is saying you can’t be a witch, but you just have to say you’re not a witch. That’s how the game works!”

“But-”

“Art thou a witch, o evil crone?” The boy asks again. 

“Excuse me, Adam,” Brian asks the boy (apparently Adam), “but why do I have to do all the work?”

“I’m being tortured here.” Wensleydale calls as he swings. “Actually, it’s very painful. I’m thinking of admitting to being a witch.”

Anathema is watching the game already fall apart as the girl (who’s name she has yet to discover) glares from the corner, as Brian begins to stop pushing the swing and pouting over having a turn, and Wensleydale not catching on to either. Obviously, Adam seems to be their glue. 

“You have to keep pushing!” Brian sighs and begins to push Wensleydale at his whine.

“Hey, kid.” 

“Yeah?” Adam looks from the game to her as she steps closer. 

“Can I ask you something?” When he nods, she continues. “Have you seen any children that are perhaps...mean? Bullies? Kind of make you suspicious?”

Adam thinks for a long moment, before shaking his head. “No, I can’t think of anyone.”

“What about any new, large dogs that might be aggressive? Or even beastly?”

He looks down as his dog begins to yap at the children at the swing. “Well, there’s Dog. I mean he’s a beast. Come on, Dog. Say hello.”

Dog whines and yips, and Anathema hums in amusement. Adam’s dog was far from a beast. “Not what I was looking for.” 

“Hold on.” Adam says, before turning to the others. “Alright, evil witch Wensleydale…” He fumbles for a decision. “Don’t do it again. And now you get off the torture swing and let someone else have a turn.”

_ Oh jeez. _ She thinks as she looks to the sun to find it lower in the sky. She’s running out of time. “Right, well you kids are hilarious, but I’m going to keep looking, so bye.”

The kids barely acknowledge her presence as she takes off, reopening the book to her map. The son of the King of the Criminal Underworld has to be in this town somewhere…

* * *

**1990**

**Hackney, London**

Aziraphale rings his hands as he stands by the patrol car. He’s in full riot uniform (minus the mask), AK slung over his shoulder. He probably wouldn’t have to use it since his captain only wanted him to be there for backup. Still, his stomach churns as he watches the pilgrimage from the tent city…

“Hello, Aziraphale!” He jumps, snapping around to find Crawly leaning against his cruiser, smirking. His hair is in a messy bun with flyaways, and his shades are in their regular place over his eyes.

“Crawly.” He nods to him, before returning his attention to the scene in front of him.

“See you’re still on active duty.” Crawly doesn’t seem to notice that Aziraphale isn’t paying attention to him. “How’s that working for you? They ever ask about me?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Erm...I told them I couldn’t remember most of your features, so they let it go.”

“Wow.” Crawly comments. “You’re not as bad as I thought.”

Aziraphale blinks and looks to Crawly, who is now watching the scene with a furrowed brow. “What does that mean?”

“Means you’re not like the rest of Scotland Yard.”

“Meaning…?”

“What’s going on here anyway?” Crawly jumps subjects so fast that Aziraphale has to blink to register what he’s talking about. “What are they doing?”

Aziraphale finds himself wringing his hands, and forces them down to his sides. Nasty habit, especially when he can’t smoke. “Commissioner's new mission. The homeless population is starting to become a problem, so she wants us to round everyone up from these abandoned buildings and…” He breaks off.

“Arrest them?”

He nods. “Trespassing.” 

“Why does it matter?” Crawly presses, lips forming a hard line. “Nobody’s using the building, anyway!”

“I...I know…It’s not my policy.”

Crawly focuses on the scene as a woman screams, hitting an officer who has scooped up her child and is heading to an armored van the opposite direction. Another officer comes up behind her, and takes out her knees. She collapses with a cry, and the arresting officer forces her down before cuffing her hands behind her back. She pushes up to scream after her son, who sobs and tries to squirm out of the other officer’s grip. 

“Kids…” Crawly murmurs, and when he turns to Aziraphale, the Detective Constable knows there’s horror in his eyes. “Not the kids.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, but nods. Crawly gapes. 

“This seems like the sort of thing my lot should do. How could you let this happen?”

Aziraphale shakes his head as he opens the passenger door to set down his gun after he sees the others wrapping. “It’s not my policy.”

“But you could  _ fight it _ .” Crawly follows him around to get in his face, cheeks turning as scarlet as his hair.

“I-”

“Detective!” Aziraphale jumps and whips around to see Gabriel coming towards him. His captain pauses, brow furrowed. “Who were you talking to?”

Aziraphale turns back to where Crawly had been crouching to no longer find him. He turns back to his captain, blinking rapidly. “Uh...no one. Just myself.”

Gabriel throws him an odd look at that, but accepts it. “We’re done here. Let’s head back and sort out paperwork. Once we get back, you can go.”

“Yes sir.” He nods, and Gabriel returns it before leaving. Once Gabriel has slipped into his cruiser and speeds off, Aziraphale lets out his breath and slumps against the side of his cruiser. That was  _ too close _ !

He hears feet hit the ground, and he peeks over the open car door to see Crawly is hunched over, hands tangled in his hair. When he feels Aziraphale’s gaze, he looks up and meets it. 

“I can’t deal with this.” He says finally, rubbing his eyes underneath his shades. “I need a drink.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I can’t help but agree.”

Crawly slowly stands. “Meet me later?”

Aziraphale hesitates, before nodding. “My flat. It’ll be private there.”

Crawly nods as well, but now won’t meet his gaze.

“I, um…” Crawly does look up at that. “I’m sorry this happened.”

Crawly sighs and shakes his head. “Me too.” Is all he says before ambling off, leaving Aziraphale alone.

* * *

**Present day**

**Tadfield**

**Two Days until the End**

“I know we didn’t find what we were looking for.” Aziraphale says yet again after nightfall, when the two had been sitting in silence for far too long. “But I’m sure there is another way.”

“Yes, angel.” Crowley simply intones. “You’ve said that before.”

“Well, I know…” Aziraphale looks out to the dark sky, swearing he saw a flash of light, but finds nothing. “But it’s good to have hope.”

Crowley merely grunts at that, and they go silent again. Aziraphale swears he sees the light again.

“You know,” Aziraphale says after a moment, “this was a beautiful village.”

Crowley perks up at that. “Was it?”

“Yes. Quite quaint.”

“Hm. Must not have noticed. Too busy.”

“I know we were here on a mission,” Aziraphale continues, “but I think this would be a lovely place to settle down and retire, don’t you think?”

“Why are you thinking about that? The end is supposed to be tomorrow!”

Aziraphale shrugs at that. “There’s still time to prevent it. And perhaps after that, we could look into retirement.”

“Um, no!” Crowley retorts. “Even if we manage to stop the boy from destroying London, there’s no end in sight. My job is not the sort you simply retire from.”

“I’m sure you could.” Aziraphale says testily. “After all, you’re putting your life on the line for this. Least you could do is at least take a vacation,  _ if not _ retire.”

“Listen, the last thing we need to be thinking about right now is-”

There’s the light a third time! Right on top of them!

“Crowley,  _ look out _ !” Aziraphale grabs and yanks on the emergency brake, sending them both into the dashboard just as the Bentley slams into the light. A girl screams, and goes flying as her bike flips. 

Both men freeze from where they have their hands placed on the dashboard. Aziraphale finally steals a glance at Crowley. “You hit someone.”

Crowley looks to him. “I didn’t hit someone.” He says, voice coated in shock. “Someone hit me.”

Aziraphale immediately climbs out of the car, Crowley following after him. The chill hits Aziraphale harder than he expected, and he shivers as he holds himself close.

“You cold?” Aziraphale looks to Crowley at that, who sighs and shoulders off his coat. “Here.”

“Y-you don’t have to…”

“I’ll be fine. You check on the girl and I’ll take a look at the car.”

Aziraphale hesitates before accepting the leather coat and slipping it on. It’s a little snug, but surprisingly warm. He huffs and stretches before grabbing the torch from the car and hurrying down the hill. He flicks it on to find the girl sprawled at the bottom of the hill. She groans at the light and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Are you all right, my dear?” He asks when he hurries to her side.

She groans again, “I think I hit my head…”

“You might have a concussion.” He examines the rest of her. “But it seems you will be okay. Come now.”

He helps her to her feet and gently begins to lead her up the hill. 

“My bike…” She murmurs.

“Oh.” He glances back to it. “Do you think you can stand on your own?” When she nods, he goes back to it, and rights it to find the front wheel practically crushed. “Oh dear.”

She groans, this time in frustration. “That was my only mode of transportation.”

“I’ll cover repairs.” Aziraphale immediately offers. He leans the bike against him as he pulls out his wallet and retrieving pound notes. “Here. This should be more than enough.”

He shoves it into her hands, and she stares at it in confusion. Perhaps she is more concussed than he originally thought.

“Up we go.” He gently urges, and she obeys. 

On the top of the hill, Crowley sighs. “I’ll have to send her in for repairs.” He calls back to Aziraphale. “Boss won’t like that.”

“It’ll have to happen.” Aziraphale says, before showing him the bike. “Do you have any rope to attach this to the back?”

Crowley turns to him, and his eyes narrow. “Why?”

Aziraphale ignores him, and turns to her as she adjusts her glasses. “Where do you need to get to?”

“No, no!” Crowley cuts in, “We’re not giving her a ride!”

“Of course we are! You hit her with your car and destroyed her bike. It’s only fair we give her a ride.”

Crowley grabs him by the arm and pulls him close. “You don’t understand.” He hisses. “I’ve still got...work stuff back there! What if she sees it and turns me in?”

“She’s concussed.” Aziraphale says evenly. “And it’s dark. She probably won’t even notice.”

“There’s nowhere to put the bike!”

“Well I’m sure among your ‘work stuff’, you have some rope, yes?”

Crowley grumbles, and lets go of Aziraphale’s arm. “Fine. Let me grab the rope.”

Once he stalks off, Aziraphale turns back to Anathema with a smile. “Do follow me.”

She nods and he leads her around the car to the passenger side. Crowley digs out the rope and swings it onto his arm. “Give it here.” He says, taking the bike from Aziraphale before walking it to the back of the Bentley.

“Watch your step.” Aziraphale gently says as he helps her in.

“Thank you.” She says softly.

“Where do you need to go?”

“Back...back to the village. I’ll give you directions.”

He nods and closes the door for her before climbing in. Not long after, Crowley joins them, tense from head to toe.

“You all right?” Aziraphale asks as they start off again. Crowley tightly nods, and they return to silence. After a long moment, he reaches and turns on the CD player, which immediately starts blaring. 

“ _ BICYCLE _

__ _ BICYCLE-!” _

“Shit!” Crowley curses, jamming the off button and returning them to silence. “Sorry.” He hurriedly apologizes, wiping his left hand on his jeans.

“It’s okay.” Anathema says evenly. “Turn left here.”

Crowley nods and makes the turn surprisingly evenly. 

“So…” Aziraphale says finally. “You live in Tadfield? Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes.” She agrees. “I love it here.”

“Oh, I have to agree with you. I was just saying that it would be a lovely place to retire. How long have you lived there?”

“I...I don’t actually live there.” She says. “At least, not permanently. I’m just renting a cottage.”

He glances in the rearview mirror to her. “Any particular reason?”

“...Vacation.”

“Ah,” He nods. “I do suppose it would be a...quiet place for a vacation.”

“Yeah.” She agrees, before pointing. “This is it right here.”

Crowley slows to a stop in front of her house and parks. She climbs out with all her things in hand. Crowley unties the bike and walks it to the gate for her as Aziraphale walks with her.

“Will that be enough to cover repairs?” He asks. “If not, I’m sure I have more in my wallet…”

“She’ll be fine.” Crowley says as he returns to his side of the car. “Can we get on?” He sighs and climbs back in. “Get in, angel.” 

Aziraphale gives her an easy smile, and Anathema dimly realizes that the leather coat he is wearing must belong to the other man. That would explain his use of the pet name. 

“Have a good night!” And with that, he hurries back to the car and climbs in. Once Aziraphale is in, Crowley sighs, slips the purple ring off his thumb, before shifting into drive. Anathema watches them go before wearily making her way into the house. 

Aziraphale doesn’t miss Crowley’s small gesture. He tries not to make a big deal out of it by simply staring ahead and asking. “Which?”

“Which what?” Crowley doesn’t look away from the road.

“Color.”

“Oh.” Crowley shakes their head. “Green. He/him was beginning to grow ill-fitting.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale nods. “It has been a stressful day.”

“Yeah,” they sigh, “it has.”

They continue on in silence after that. The dark village falls further and further behind them. Darkness gives way to the headlights of other cars as they begin to enter the city. Finally, Aziraphale steals a look to Crowley before sighing. “Look, there’s something I should tell you.”

They grunt, which Aziraphale takes as permission to continue. 

“I have a....network,” He says finally, “of highly trained agents spread across the city.”

“...You do?”

“Oh yes.” Aziraphale says sagely. “Now, I could set them to search for the boy.”

“I actually have...something similar.” They look out to the road ahead.

Aziraphale looks to them at that. “Gosh, do you think they should work together?”

Crowley winces at that. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. My lot are not very...sophisticated.”

Aziraphale hums. “No...neither are mine. They would probably end up fighting more than actually working.”

“More than likely.” The bookshop comes in sight, so Crowley pulls to the curb across the street and parks. Aziraphale climbs out first and they follow, leaning against the side of the Bentley as Aziraphale sheds the leather coat and drops it on the passenger seat.

“You sure you don’t want it?” Crowley asks, “It’s a little cool out here, and it’ll take some time before your coat is clean.”

“I’m sure.” Aziraphale says, folding the coat simply and stands back up, making sure he has his shop keys.

“You know,” They ask, as if to keep a waning conversation going, “if you were to ask  _ everyone _ in the world what genre the Velvet Underground was, literally  _ no one  _ would say bebop.”

Aziraphale gives them an unamused as he begins to close the door, when his eyes catch on something on the back. He pauses, brow furrowing. 

“Hang on,” He squints, “there’s a book back there.”

“Really?” Crowley quirks an eyebrow. “Well it’s not mine. I don’t read on the job.”

Aziraphale ignores that as he kneels down and grabs the book. Once he gets it past the front passenger seat, he stands again to examine it. “It seems to belong to the young lady you hit with your car.”

“Again, I didn’t hit her. She hit  _ me. _ ” Aziraphale doesn’t answer, now noticing the title of the green book. “And we’re not going back. Just send it to Tadfield post office or what have you, and then you don’t have to worry about it. Just address it to ‘the mad American woman with a bicycle’.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t respond, still staring at the book. 

“...Aziraphale?”

He looks up at that, eyes unfocused. He blinks, and his expression settles. But for a moment, Crowley couldn’t understand why he had seemed frightened. 

“Oh, uh...jolly good, yes. Rather.”

“Right.” Crowley cocks their head in curiosity. “So...should we both contact our respective operatives then?”

Aziraphale is already heading to the street. He hurriedly looks back. “All right.”

When he begins to rush across the street, Crowley’s brow furrows. “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly, yes!” He hurries up the steps of the bookshop, fishing for his keys. “Uh tip-top.” He locates them and jams them into the lock. “Absolutely tickety boo!”

“ _ Tickety boo _ ?”

Aziraphale pushes the door opens and is halfway through as he calls. “Mind how you go!”

“Wait-!”

But the door slams shut and locks behind him. Crowley stares after him, jaw slightly parted and brow furrowed. 

“Right.” They say to themselves as they slip back in the Bentley. “That was...a thing.” They can’t help but steal one last glance at the bookshop, before driving away.   
Aziraphale, meanwhile, has completely forgotten about Crowley. He places the book on the desk as if it were made of glass, before making himself a warm mug of cocoa. As he holds the mug, he can’t help but stay back and stare in awe at the emerald bound book. 

Aziraphale may have originally taken this job as a front, but books have become his obsession. He has gathered quite the collection. The crown jewels of his collection, though, are his books of prophecy. His finest obsession. All of them were first editions that he had traveled to the ends of the earth for (much to the dismay of his superiors). The only one he couldn’t find was  _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter _ .

And now...here it is.

He sets his mug to the side before slipping on the gloves. His eyes never leave the book as he fastens the gloves, before gently lifting the cover of the book. He can’t help his shaky gasp at the sight of the title, the drawing of the little girl just below. He has to take a moment to collect himself, palm gently resting on the first page. Once he takes a deep breath, he cautiously turns the page and reads the first prophecy his eyes catch on. 

“Prophecy 3008:  _ When that the men with likeness to an angel readeth these words of mine, in his shoppe of other menne’s books, then the final days are certes upon us. Open thine eyes to understand. Open thine eyes and rede, I do say, foolish angel, for thy cocoa doth grow cold. _ ” His brow furrows at that. “Cocoa...doth grow cold? What’s that supposed to mean…?” His eyes travel to the mug, and he gasps at the sight. The hand that had automatically gone to his heart just moments before, shakily reaches out and touches the side of the mug. Through his gloves, he can feel the cooling porcelain. His jaw drops, and he gapes down at the book in wonder. 

“Is...is it really possible?” His eyes search the rest of the page, before turning. “I have to know...I have to know more.”

And so he sits the entire night, reading prophecy after prophecy. At some point, he had begun to mark specific dates beside prophecies that had come true. So far, even the smallest detail has shown the most stunning accuracy….

The ring startles him out of his stupor. He immediately grabs the phone. “ _ What _ ?”

“ _...Aziraphale? _ ”

He blinks as he tries to register the voice. He rubs his burning eyes as the pieces come together. “Crowley?”

“ _ Yeah, it’s me. Any news? Have you found the boy yet?” _

“No, no news. Nothing at all. Why do you think I have? I would have told you, haven’t I?” Guilt is boiling up in his chest but he’s already  _ so far in _ . He  _ has  _ to find out what’s going to happen.

“ _ I haven’t found much of anything either.”  _ Crowley admits, ignoring Aziraphale’s outburst.  _ “Call me if you find anything.” _

“Of course I would! Why would you think I wouldn’t?” And he hangs up before they can question his odd behavior. He slumps back in his chair and sighs, rubbing his eyes. After a moment of rest, he returns to the prophecy he had just been about to read. His eyes catch on the word  _ ‘Tadsfield’ _ almost immediately, before doubling back and seeing the words  _ ‘John’ _ and  _ ‘Number of the beast leads to the true Beast’ _ . 

“Hang on…” This all sounded familiar….

With a slight frown, he reaches up to the top shelf of his desk, and pulls down the Bible that had been gathering dust. He flips through with less care than he did the book of prophecies, until he is near the end of the book, and finds what he’s looking for. His finger traces the phrase. 

_ “Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man. And his number is six hundred threescore and six.”  _ His gaze roves to the phone, and his frown deepens. “It can’t be that simple, can it?”

Only one way to find out. 

The second book he pulls down is the phonebook, which he sets right next to the phone. “I just need...Tadfield area code…” Once he finds it, he turns the dial, before painstakingly adding ‘6 6 6’. For a long moment, the line rings, and his gaze returns to the prophecies. 

The line picks up, and his heart skips it’s first beat. “ _ Tadfield, 0-4-6-triple-6. Arthur Young here.” _

Distantly, Aziraphale can hear a younger voice call: “ _ Dad, look! I got Dog to stand on his hind legs!” _

Aziraphale’s heart skips a second time as his gaze zeroes in on ‘ _ the hound walks on his hind legs like a bear’ _ . 

“... _ Hello? _ ”

He realizes he had yet to speak. Now that he tries, they stutter and fade on his tongue as he manages. “S-sorry. Right number!” He slams down the phone, and slides away as if he had been burned. 

He found the boy. He actually found him!

But...but now what is he supposed to  _ do _ ?


	10. Somebody to Love

**Chapter 10- Somebody to Love**

_ “(He works hard) _

_ Everyday _

_ (everyday) _

_ I try and I try and I try _

_ But everybody wants to put me down _

_ They say I’m going crazy _

_ They say I got a lot of water in my brain _

_ Ah, got no common sense _

_ I got nobody left to believe in.” _

**Early the next morning**

**One day until the End**

The door to the bookstore remains locked, and the curtains drawn. Inside, Aziraphale paces, wringing his hands and desperately attempting to avoid looking at the pack of Crowley’s cigarettes on the desk. 

“I’ll...I’ll just go to the office and explain it all. Yes…” He clears his throat and makes himself stop pacing. “Gabriel, um...Captain Kearney. No no….ummm…”

He paces to his desk, before turning on his heel again. “Hello Gabriel! There is a-a-a child we have to deal with and-and make everything okay again. Oh God…” He sighs, hands wringing again. “It’s...it’s here!” He stops in front of his makeshift map, and points at a specific spot, the red X. “He was lost. B-but I found him here! He’s living in the village of Tadfield, and his eleventh birthday was the start of…” He groans and grimaces, withdrawing his hand. “...the end of things.  _ But  _ I have his address, and all we have to do now is  _ eliminate him _ ,” his hands stop wringing and clench into determined fists, “and everything can still be okay!” He nods, trying to convince himself more than his hypothetical captain. “He’ll have an enormous hound with him! He won’t be hard to spot!”

* * *

Dog was supposed to be a large hound. The scientists that had created his genetics had been so certain that he and his pups would be  _ big _ ,  _ strong _ , and fear inducing. However, there were too many flaws for his litter mates to survive. He may not have been the largest, but when it came to survival, he was the strongest. 

It was almost too easy to throw off his entire life before Adam. Once, he would have been trained daily to attack, to protect, to  _ kill _ . 

But the moment he met Adam, ran into his arms, everything changed. Now, he spends his days lounging in the sun, following Adam on the roads and through the fields. His companion even lets him chase and yip at the cat from next door, all with a delighted laugh and grin. 

Today they’re going for a walk. Adam doesn’t even need a leash, for Dog remains at his side, one of the few things he remembers to do from his previous life. 

“I can’t believe it!” A woman sobs. “I  _ can’t believe it! _ ” Something shatters and Adam pauses in his tracks, before following the sound. 

In her cottage yard, Anathema holds a giant pot over her head. “Three hundred and fifty years my family kept it safe!” The pot smashes against the bench, and Dog whimpers. She grabs another one. “Three hundred and,” She hurls it at the bench, “ _ fifty years!” _

Drained of her outburst, she sinks to the ground, leaning against the bench. Her screams turn into bitter tears as she holds her head. 

“Hello?” She looks up at the voice, turning to find Adam at the gate. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

For a long moment, she just stares, having expected to be the only one out at this time of the morning. After a moment, she clears her throat and hides her face. “I’m fine.”

“...But you were crying.”

“ _ I know _ .” She says wetly, then closes her eyes to compose herself as she stands. She takes a deep breath, wiping her eyes, before turning to him with a polite and fake smile. “Hello. You can come in.”

He blinks at her for a second, before opening the gate. Dog bounds ahead of him, stopping at Anathema’s feet to sniff her skirt with a raised tail of curiosity. 

“Dog.” He calls once, and his companion returns to him. Anathema watches quietly.

She sighs. “This is all going to sound stupid, but...I lost my book and it all just got a bit too much.”

“I can help you look for it.”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you.” She smiles faintly. “It’s been in my family a long time.”

“I’m sure we can find it.” He smiles back. “My name’s Adam. I live in Hogback Lane.”

“Thanks, Adam.” She crosses to him, holding out her hand. She realizes it’s covered in dirt and wipes it off on her skirt. “I’m Anathema.” 

He meets her and shakes. She withdraws her hand after, folding them both in front of her. “Are you from here?”

“This is my world.” He points down to the right. “From Hogback Wood to the Dip,” He then turns his finger just past her, “and from the old quarry to the pond.”

“You haven’t seen two men in a black vintage car, have you?”

His brow furrows, and he shakes his head. “No…” Then his eyes light up. “Did they steal it? Professional book thieves that we’re going to have to track down and steal it back?”

“No, no, no. They didn’t mean to steal it.”

“Oh.” His gaze falls a little at that, disappointed. She can’t stand it.

“...Do you want some lemonade?”

His gaze flicks behind her. “Are we going to have to break into the cottage and battle the witch for it?” 

She follows his gaze back to her cottage. “...That’s my cottage.” His brow furrows again. “I’m renting it.”

He hesitates. “...Excuse me for asking, if it’s not a personal question, but are you a witch?”

Her mind jumps back to the game.  _ They were just having fun _ , she says to herself. But still she shakes her head. “Of course not….I’m an occultist.”

“Oh.” He shrugs. “Well, I guess that’s all right, then.”

She smiles at that and leads him into the cottage. 

* * *

Crowley doesn’t look up from his newspaper as the bell for the diner dings to notify everyone of a new patron. Footsteps shuffle across the tile floor, before the chair across from him drags across the floor. 

“Sergeant Shadwell.”

“Mr. Crawly, sir.” Shadwell remarks as he sits. “You’re looking well.”

“Clean living.” He doesn’t look up from his paper yet. “I went on a nicotine cleanse about a decade ago. Still haven’t returned to my fondness for cigarettes.”

Shadwell chuckles nervously at that, and pulls out his bag. “The ledger’s been prepared. The men need paying, sir. It’s hard times for Witchfinders in this degenerate age.” 

Crowley glances at it, then shakes his head. “You will receive your usual, plus a small bonus. It will be delivered on Saturday.” Perhaps if he had actually glanced at the ledger, Crowley would have seen the following names:

_ Witchfinder General Smith _

_ Witchfinder Colonel Green _

_ Witchfinder Colonel Jones _

_ Witchfinder Major Jackson _

_ Witchfinder Major Robinson _

_ Witchfinder Major Smythe _

_ Witchfinder Major Saucepan _

_ Witchfinder Major Tin _

_ Witchfinder Major Milkbottle (deceased) _

_ Witchfinder Major Cupboard _

But if Crowley had ever noticed the odd names, he never put together that they were not actual people, but random household objects that Shadwell had concocted into Witchfinders, and that there were actually only two Witchfinders in existence. 

“Only in cash, in an envelope.” Shadwell laughs, but then catches on. His laughter pauses. “A bonus, sir? Oh the men will be most thankful!”

Crowley simply hums. “I have a job that needs to be taken care of.”

“Which is…?”

He puts down the newspaper to look at Shadwell. “There’s a village in Oxfordshire, called Tadfield. Send your best men down there. I’m looking for a boy about eleven. I don’t have anything more than that, but look for anything... _ suspicious _ .” 

Shadwell glances around. No one is watching, so he turns back. “This boy...he’s a witch?”

“Possibly.” Crowley convincingly lies. “We’ll have to find him first, won’t we?”

“Aye.” Shadwell chuckles. “Well, my best operative….that would be Witchfinder Lieutenant Table.”

Crowley ignores him, folding up the newspaper and rising. “Call me if you find anything. And don’t forget...I was never here.”

“Aye.” Shadwell nods absently. “Don’t you worry, I’ll also send erm...Witchfinder Sergeant Pepper.” 

But Crowley is already gone.

* * *

“So, Aziraphale?” Gabriel sits in his desk as Micheal, Uriel, and Sandalphon stand on either side of him, and Aziraphale across the desk in the closed office. “Got your message. Have you got something big?” He stretches out his arms in an accepting gesture, leaning back in his sight. “Lay it on us.”

Aziraphale furrows his brow at that. “...I’m sorry?”

Uriel sighs. “ _ What’s happening _ ?”

“I see,” He clears his throat and straightens. “See...well…” They’re all watching him with piercing eyes and Aziraphale feels the words dying in his throat. Still, he pushes on. “I-it’s about the boy.”

“Yes?” Uriel asks for all of them.

“I think that, um...well, it’s not impossible considering a-all the alternatives that the...the  _ other side _ might have lost track of him.” He chuckles nervously, wringing his hands as Gabriel seems to consider this. 

Michael furrows her brow. “The other side?”

“The, um...Demons.”

“Lost track of him?” Gabriel seems confused. “He’s the son of a U.S. Ambassador. He’s under constant surveillance by both the U.S. and ourselves.”

“There are rumors that the ‘other side’ are currently transporting the boy and his family to Westminster for a tour of the Abbey tomorrow. That’s where we will meet them.” Michael adds.

“It’ll cause unrest, beginning in such sacred space.” Gabriel continues. “From there, the rest will follow. The Four Horsemen ride out. The final fight will begin.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale swallows down his confusion ( _ they’re expecting things to go badly? There will be more unrest? Why are we outsourcing known terrorists? _ And so on.), and continues. “Well, um it is possible that the Demon Crawly, a-a slippery man to catch…” He chuckles nervously. “He keeps me on my toes, that’s for sure. But the ambassador’s son...well it may have been a ruse.”

“A ruse?” Sandalphon asks, unimpressed. 

“And the actual son of their leader may be... _ somewhere else _ .” 

Everyone stares at him in horror. Well, everyone except Gabriel, who gives him a tight smile brimming with rage before asking: “ _ Where _ ?”

Once again, Aziraphale finds the words dying in his throat, fleeing before he can catch them. Why were they angry about this? Shouldn’t they be  _ relieved _ that the boy was out of danger and as long as he never found out who his real father was, they wouldn’t have to worry. “Not sure.” He says, lying surprisingly smoothly. “I mean, I-I could find out. I have a team of...agents who-who could investigate. Erm..” He dares, “Hypothetically, if this were the case…”

“It wouldn’t change anything.” Uriel explains. 

“Our Commissioner’s family was killed by one of them nearly thirty years ago. She has lost everything.” Gabriel seems determined. “And we’ll make sure we get rid of them, for her vengeance, and for a better world. Crawly, his boss, all those criminals, they can be returned to prison, where they belong. Everything will be settled.”

Aziraphale’s mouth feels dry. “There doesn’t have to be a fight, does there?” 

Gabriel seems unamused as he rises. “As much as we appreciate your hypotheticals, Aziraphale, we have work to do.” 

With that, the four pass him and leave the office. Aziraphale swallows his shaking breath and horror, hands dropping to his sides. 

...Now what?

* * *

**1990**

Aziraphale didn’t want to be here. No, it wasn’t  _ right.  _

J had been a peaceful man. Despite going back and forth with the police department on policy, he was a peaceful man in his crusade for justice. He didn’t even recommend violence to the vast number of his followers. 

So Aziraphale found it cruel to discover that he had passed. Though the police force would not be making an appearance, he could still attend the meeting as Just Aziraphale. But that didn’t change that he didn’t want to be here and this  _ shouldn’t  _ have happened. 

The small church that had been chosen was filled to the brim. Aziraphale was standing next to the stained glass window, having given up his seat for the sobbing woman in front of him. He had to school his face into something solemn but steady; he could not cry here. As the vicar spoke in steady tones that were accompanied by various sniffles and murmured words of comfort, Aziraphale could no longer look at the closed casket, could no longer think about what that implied. Rumors stated that he had been…’taken care of’ by someone on the force. Not that anyone could prove that, and he doubted that one of his own coworkers could be so cruel…

At some point, he blinks and realizes that he is no longer in the church, but out in the graveyard. J’s mother is kneeling next to the casket, while some of his closest friends (Peter and John, if he remembered correctly) comfort her. He looks up, and his gaze is drawn to a woman all in black standing a distance away from the crowd. Despite the sunshine, she holds an umbrella, a cigarette in her free hand, her  _ red hair _ falling out of its careful placement. 

_ Red hair ...what _ was Crawly doing here? Dressed like  _ that _ ? 

Silently, he makes his way around the funeral, careful of the graves, until he comes to stand right next to him. Aziraphale takes a deep breath to speak, but Crawly beats him to it. 

“Come to smirk at the bugger, have you?”

“Smirk? Me?” His nose wrinkles at that, and he turns his attention to the funeral. 

“Well, it’s your lot that put him there.” He points out, before taking a drag of his cigarette. The smoke slips out between his lips.

“No, we didn't.” He would never kill someone, and he had faith that his fellow officers wouldn't either...they wouldn't! 

Crawly throws him a skeptical look, but says nothing. Aziraphale can't help but fidget.

“After all, I would think that sort of thing would be... your side, Crawly.”

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale pauses at that, blinking rapidly. “What?” 

“You can call me Crowley.” He shrugs. “Might as well, since you already know my name and still haven't turned me in. Something tells me we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Right.” Aziraphale nods after a long moment, and looks back towards the funeral. The odd mix of emotions is creating a lump in his throat that he has to take deep breaths to work around. “Did you uh...did you know him?” 

“Yes.” Crowley nods, taking another drag of his cigarette. When he puffs out smoke, he continues. “Very nice man. I showed him all of Europe practically.”

“Why?” Aziraphale is glad to tear his gaze from the sobbing Marys (J’s mother and one of his closest friends were both named Mary, and were now being held by his disciples) to look back to Crowley, now realizing he had leaned his umbrella over to cover both of them. 

“He’s a carpenter. His travel opportunities were limited, even if he accepted the offer I had on my boss’s behalf. He didn’t, by the way.” He sighed and took another drag. “And I’m glad.” 

“Oh...I didn’t figure he had ever had...criminal connections.” 

“You’d be right.” The cigarette has been used to its butt, so Crowley drops it, and crushes the cigarette under his heel. Aziraphale watches quietly. 

“Crowley, dear?” Crowley hums that he heard Aziraphale, so the latter continues. “Why are you wearing a dress?” 

Crowley freezes from where he had been rising and lowering his dress hem. It’s miniscule, for he returns with a smirk as he fishes for another cigarette. His fingers fumble almost desperately for the stick of nicotine, giving away his nerves. “I was wondering if you would notice.” 

“It’s hard not to. It’s obvious.” 

Crowley takes the cigarette between his teeth and digs through his purse for a lighter. He retrieves it, and fumbles with latch on the lighter. He curses as he fails to light it repeatedly, but goes deadly silent when Aziraphale takes the lighter from him and lights it. He sighs and leans into the light until the cigarette catches. He backs away and takes a drag. “Thanks.” 

“You know those are bad for you, right?” 

Crowley shrugs. “So they say. Don’t you still smoke?” 

“I’m trying not to anymore.” And yet, when Crowley offers a stick, the detective does not turn it down. He lights his own and takes his drag. For a long moment, the two sit in silence and smoke. Finally, Crowley sighs. 

“I suppose I should tell you.” Aziraphale says nothing, but turns to see Crowley close his eyes and take a deep breath. “Just...don’t freak out, or you know…” He doesn’t finish that statement, instead swallowing visibly, looking off into the empty end of the graveyard. 

“I do feel like a man.” He says finally. “Just...not all the time. Some days, being a man crawls under my skin like ants and I can’t stand looking at masculinity in the mirror. Some days, I am a woman, and it settles on me better than trying to enforce that I’m just a man. And then there are other days where neither label fits right, or both do at one time.”

“So today…?” Aziraphale asks softly.

“I am a woman.” Crowley states simply, hands shaking despite a steady voice. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale says even quieter, looking down.The silence drags between them. 

“Angel?” Crowley asks after a long moment. Aziraphale says nothing. “Aziraphale  _ please say something _ .”

Aziraphale can’t stand the begging in hi- _ her _ voice. It’s too unlike Crowley. Finally, Aziraphale looks to Crowley, stepping closer. Crowley looks as if she wants to bolt, even with the shades covering her eyes. He takes one of her shaking hands. 

“My dear, this doesn’t change anything between us. You are still my friend.” Crowley has gone dead silent, so Aziraphale continues. “I can’t say I understand all of what you said, but I can try. Will you tell me what you would like to be called whenever I see you?”

Crowley hums, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand. “I only want you to call me Crowley. That’s it. But..I can tell you what pronouns I’m using.” She looks thoughtfully down at their hands. “I’m trying to find some way to say it without...actually saying it. Co-workers won’t quite understand. Prison sure didn’t.”

Aziraphale follows her gaze down, trying not to think hard on the last of her implications. “I’m sure you will find something.”

“Thank you, angel.” He looks up and meets her gaze, her glasses having slid down the bridge of her nose. He can’t decipher the look in her eyes…

He pulls his hand away, returning to his cigarette before he can see Crowley’s expression change. The cigarette doesn’t seem to be soothing him, and so he drops it and crushes it beneath his shoe.

“How about we go get some dinner?” He straightens his coat, and holds out an arm for her. “I know of this  _ delightful _ little restaurant, not too far from here.”

“How’s their alcohol?” 

“I’d say they have a pretty nice selection of wines. Nothing compared to my own collection, but decent enough.” 

Crowley pauses, but hooks her arm with his after disposing of her own cigarette. “Sounds nice. I’m parked not far from here. I’ll drive.”

Aziraphale groans. “Do you still drive like a Demon, even when you’re a woman?”

She barks a short laugh. “Angel, some things will never change.” 

* * *

**1991**

They had gone their separate ways after that night. Life went on regardless of deaths or discoveries. Of course the rest of the world had to catch on to this following the 24th of November of that following year. Aziraphale had never really paid that close attention to popular music, especially  _ rock _ . But he had heard of Live Aid, and of Freddie Mercury. He was the one that had created such a ruckus years ago at that event. He saw people inspired by him, by how good of a man he was, and now Aziraphale could understand their pain. 

However, it still surprised him when he went to a bar on the 27th to find it nearly full, Freddie’s voice echoing throughout the venue. He says nothing, instead heading towards a hidden booth near the bar. He orders his drink, and is drinking as he attempts to read the book he had brought along. That is, until a familiar voice catches his attention.

“What have you got?” Aziraphale looks up from his book to see Crowley’s back at the bar. “Give me a pint of whatever is drinkable.”

The bartender throws him a look, before passing him a glass. “House brown.” Is all she says to him, before returning to her business of cleaning glasses. He places his card on the counter for her, and she takes it after a pause. Aziraphale finds himself unable to stop from rising and approaching Crowley.

“Crowley?” He jumps, and turns to see Aziraphale, drink in hand and book under arm. Aziraphale smiles. “Well, it’s good to see you again.”

Crowley  _ hmphs _ as he returns to his drink, but doesn’t stop Aziraphale from sitting next to him, setting his glass and book on the counter. 

“So…” Aziraphale breaks the pause of silence. “Are you a boy or girl this time?”

Crowley slams down his glass, and turns on him. The shades increase the thunder of his anger. “What kind of a  _ dickish  _ question is that? Arsehole!”

Aziraphale shrinks back, and Crowley returns to his drink. He pulls a face when he takes a sip. 

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale says finally, softer. “I didn’t mean to offend you, I promise. I just…” He sighs, and shakes his head. “I’m just making excuses for myself. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

Crowley is quiet for a moment, then says. “The term is genderqueer. It’s for someone who doesn’t fit into the traditional ideas of ‘boy’ or ‘girl’, like me. I think the best way to ask, at least for me personally, is to ask for my pronouns. Just not in front of other people.” He steals a glance at the bartender’s back. “I’m not out to everyone.”

Aziraphale nods. “Very well. What are your pronouns?” He asks softly.

Crowley relaxes. “He/him.” He says finally.

“Got it.”

They return to silence for a long while. Crowley takes another drink. 

“What brings you here?” Aziraphale asks finally as Crowley finishes his drink. 

“...Just needed some space.” He admits. “His funeral was today.”

“...Who?”

Crowley looks to him at that, brow furrowed and nose wrinkled. “Freddie Mercury. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of him.”

“Oh no, I have.” Aziraphale appeases. “I just didn’t know you were a fan.”

“Have Queen’s whole collection on CDs in my car. I don’t know if you noticed last time.”

He shakes his head. “I hadn’t.”

“Yeah. Big fan.” Crowley comments. He clears his throat, and looks to Aziraphale. “What about you?”

Aziraphale takes a sip, then sighs. “I’ve been moved to undercover operations. Now…” He examines his glass. “I’m a bookseller.”

“Really?” Crowley quirks an eyebrow at that. “I suppose that makes sense for you.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.” He looks around at the crowded bar, and finds he can barely breathe. “Could we take a walk? Please?”

Crowley gives him a long look at that, before nodding. “Yeah, all right.” He slips off the barstool and takes Aziraphale by the wrist. 

Aziraphale finally takes a deep breath when they step outside. Crowley is watching him. “You okay?”

He takes a deep breath and nods. “I’m fine.”

Crowley gives a curt nod, and they start walking in comfortable silence. 

“It’s…” Aziraphale looks up as Crowley speaks. “It’s good to see you, too. Don’t know if I said that earlier.”

Aziraphale gives him a soft smile, hands in his pockets now. “Other than today, how has life been treating you?”

“Pretty well.” Crowley looks up to the sky, and stops walking. “I just can’t shake this feeling…”

Aziraphale stops as well, looking at him. “What kind of feeling?”

This makes Crowley look down from the sky. “Like I’m walking on the wrong path.”

Aziraphale snorts at that. “Well of course you are. You’re a criminal.”

“Well this has been my life.” Crowley points out. “The first event of my adult life was going to prison. Can’t get a decent job with a record.”

“You’re making excuses.” Aziraphale points out.

“Yeah, maybe I am!” Crowley snaps, shoulders tensing towards his ears. He sighs, and lets them drop. “But it doesn’t seem like your path is the right one either.”

“...What do you mean by that?”

“Think about it, Aziraphale. Think about everything your coworkers have done in your entire career. How much of it can you  _ actually say _ you wholeheartedly agree with?”

“I…” Aziraphale fumbles for words, but has no answer. They both knew that Aziraphale rarely agreed with policy. “It’s not my place to agree or disagree. I am just supposed to do my job.”

“If I were to say that, what would you call me? A mindless robot? A soulless man? Aziraphale, you are  _ more  _ than any of those things. I know  _ for a fact _ that you have a conscience, and it  _ squirms _ at the thought of everything that’s been happening!”

Aziraphale shakes his head and begins to walk away. “It’s different.” 

“ _ How _ ?” Crowley starts after him. “Because yours is permitted by law and mine isn’t? The law can be corrupt, too, Aziraphale!” 

“And what exactly am I supposed to do about that?” Aziraphale stops at the top of the steps of his new bookshop, the lettering shining in the street lights. Crowley stops at the bottom, staring up at him. 

“...We could make a deal. An Arrangement.”

“Arrangement?” Aziraphale grabs the door knob. “Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“I haven’t even explained it.”

“You don’t need to.” Aziraphale says curtly. “My superiors will hardly approve of an… ‘arrangement’ with a Demon.”

“Who says they have to know?” Crowley begins up the steps towards him.

“ _ Enough _ , Crowley!” Aziraphale doesn’t back away. “I won’t go through with it.”

“But-” Before Crowley can say another word, Aziraphale hurries in and slams the door behind him, in Crowley’s face. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shouts through the door. When he knows Aziraphale isn’t going to respond, he growls to himself. “God  _ dammit! _ ”

He slides down the door until he is sitting on the steps. “Well that was a bust.” He says more to himself than Aziraphale or any random passerby who walks a little quicker at the sight of Crowley’s brooding figure. “I just want to make things better. I know he doesn’t want to admit it, but his side is just as bad as mine. But what’s worse is they treat him like dirt, and he accepts it. We could make things better. I know what that would mean for my livelihood, but I could try to find another way. But...but I can’t escape. And neither can he. We...we  _ need  _ each other.”

The lock turns and Crowley jumps. He manages to scoot away as Aziraphale looks down at him. “What were you saying?”

“I...nothing.” He says quickly, trying to ignore his cheeks growing red.  _ We need each other… _

“No, you were saying something. Something about making things better. What was it?”

_ Oh.. _ “I was just saying that we could make things better, for both sides. That’s what the arrangement would be. Could you at least  _ discuss  _ it with me?”

For a long moment, Aziraphale just stares down at him. Finally, he sighs, and opens the door. “Come in. Quickly.”

Crowley nods, hurrying to his feet and following Aziraphale inside. The other glances around the street, sees no one, and locks the door again.

* * *

**Present- Friday**

**One day before the End**

Gabriel sighs as he slumps back down in his office seat. This time, his coworkers stand across from him at the desk. He’s frowning in thought, and they know that means to wait for him to speak. 

“What did you think of Aziraphale’s conference from earlier?” He asks finally.

“That’s an officer who’s been in the field too long.” Uriel says. “Honestly, I don’t understand how you haven’t fired him yet.”

Gabriel doesn’t respond to her comments, hand on his chin in thought.

“I don’t trust him.” Sandalphon adds. Michael says nothing, but sits in the lone chair on the other side of the desk, listening quietly.

“Hypotheticals indeed.” Gabriel murmurs. “We’ll need to keep an eye on him.”

There are murmurs of ‘yes sir’ before they file out. Michael remains seated for a moment longer, before slowly rising and following them out.

* * *

Aziraphale swallows dryly as the line rings. He glances around his empty bookshop, as if he were being watched. 

Finally, the line picks up and a woman’s voice sweetly and heavily answers in a posh accent. “ _ Hello. _ ”

“Erm, Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, please. Or, um, one of his officers.”

“... _ Do I know you _ ?” Her accent disappears in her confusion.

His heart leaps into his throat. He knew who she was, but she had ordered a strict no-contact with anyone on the police force after she had left suddenly. “And who might you be, madam?”

Tracy is quiet for a long moment, before she finally returns to her posh accent. “ _I shall endeavour to see if he is available._ _Hold on_.”

He nods to himself as the line goes quiet. After a moment, it clicks and a voice returns.  _ “Aye? _ ”

He bites back a sigh of relief. “Sergeant Shadwell. It’s you-know-who.”

“ _ Who? _ ”

“...Me. Your, um, sponsor. Listen, do you have any men free? I need them to poke about a bit.”

“ _ Poke? Where exactly do you want them poking? _ ”

“Tadfield. It’s a small town in Oxfordshire. There’s a boy I need placed under observation. I-I need to know where he is at all times. I can give you his address.”

_ “I’ll put a squad of my best men onto it.” _

__ “Oh, good! Thank you so much! Oh, and I should have asked about Witchfinder Major Milkbottle.” He adds as an afterthought. “I was so sorry to hear of his untimely end. I sent flowers.”

“ _ Aye, the flowers were appreciated. And so was the extra twenty pounds for the family. He was a brave man. _ ”

“Oh, I was  _ flabbergasted _ when you told me how he died.”

“ _ Aye, a brave man. I’ll be by the bookstore, um, next week to pick up your annual dues.” _

Aziraphale nods. “Squad of best men to Tadfield, dear fellow. And keep them there until I give more orders. Now,” he pulls out his notebook, “his name is...Adam Young. And his address is Number Four, Hogback Lane, Tadfield.” He hears scratching on the other end of the line. “Have you got it?”

“ _ Absolutely, Your Honour. Tadfield it is.” _

“Right. Pip-pip. And let me know when your men are in position.” The line goes dead at that. Aziraphale sighs and hangs up the phone. “He must be heading straight to work, then.”

On the other end of the finished call, Shadwell sighs. “Pip-pip. Great Southern Pansy.” He grumbles as he gathers his things, including the address. Both of his benefactors calling him to Tadfield, just within hours of each other? Something is definitely happening in Tadfield.

Whatever it may be, it can wait until he’s had a cup of tea. He sighs, and slams his flat door shut behind him.

* * *

**Des Moines, Iowa, USA**

Dr. Raven Sable is one of the top businessmen in the food industry. He sits on top of multiple chains of restaurants all over the world: American, British, Chinese, you name it. The one thing all of these chains have in common: how little food they can convincingly sell to a mindless consumer so they’ll buy more, forking them out of money  _ so  _ easily. 

Some say he’s a genius. Others say he’s unethical. Not that he cares. After all, he wasn’t referred to as Famine for nothing. It’s a name he hasn’t used in years, having gone underground to hide from law enforcement, but he knew that someday, he would be called again.

For now, he continues to work on his latest project: food-free food. That’s what brings Dr. Sable and his assistant, Frannie, to this one lone diner in Des Moines. 

The moment they walk in, Dr. Sable heads to a booth and sets his briefcase on the table. He unlatches and opens it to show the contents to the first waitress that had approached them. He points to each item in the case, set up as if they hadn’t been jostled in travel.

“Artificial bun. Artificial burger. Fries that have never seen a potato. Foodless sauces. And...we’re rather proud of this: a  _ completely artificial _ dill pickle.”

Frannie grins. “The milkshake doesn’t contain any actual food content either.”

“Well, no one’s milkshakes contain any actual food content.” Sable ribs, then laughs at the joke. He lets his laughter comfortably fade, before clapping his hands. “Ok! Let’s try it out.”

“Press this button when you hand over the Chow. And don’t call it food,” Frannie leans in over the waitress, who honestly looks as if this were a daily occurence and she’d rather be on a beach drinking margaritas somewhere. “It’s  _ Chow _ .”

The waitress gives a curt nod, before pressing the button. The door opens as the machine begins it’s list of warnings ( _ lose weight, hair loss, anal leakage _ among them), but Sable ignores it as a postman steps into the diner, holding a large package. He steps around Frannie and the waitress to meet the visitor.

“Party, name of Sable?” The postman asks, with a remarkable British accent. 

“That’s me.”

The postman grins. “Thought it was you.” He sets the package down in the booth next to the Chow. “There’s a package for you, sir. You have to sign for it.” 

Sable nods, stealing a glance over to where Frannie is opening the box for him. Still, he nods and signs the contract before handing it back to the postman. The postman chuckles with his thanks, and happens to look over his shoulder into the kitchen. His smile fades as he sees an overweight old man dressed as Elvis, mumbling the words to Hound Dog. Once he takes the clipboard, he immediately turns tail and leaves the diner, afraid to look back at the old Elvis impersonator. 

Frannie and Sable have long forgotten about him, anyways. Frannie hands the gift, a wooden box, to Sable in confusion. A long forgotten emotion stirs within him as he slowly opens the wooden box. Is it…?

Frannie gasps, and Sable’s jaw parts slightly in awe. “The measuring scales. Finally…”

“Dr. Sable?”

“I’m flying to England.” He begins towards the door, still staring down at the scales in fascination. 

“I’ll let the jet know. When are you returning?”

He shakes his head, not looking away from the scales. “Who knows? Who cares?! Cancel all my appointments.”

“For how long?” 

He finally looks up. “For the foreseeable future.” He snaps the box closed, and hurries out to his limo. When he climbs in, he can hardly sit still, and he can put a name to the long forgotten emotion.

_ Thrill. _

__ He has been called back again. Famine returns.

* * *

“Dad?” Adam asks over the TV. “Did you know there are ley lines everywhere?”

“No, Adam. Ley Lines are rubbish.” Mr. Young sighs, eyes not leaving the television screen. He laughs at the scene playing out on the screen, and turns to his wife. “Oh, you’ll like this, Diedre. They’ve taped the gun under the chair!” Diedre smiles, nodding along with her husband.

“It’s not rubbish!” Adam defends. Anathema had taught him  _ so much _ and had given these magazines to him as extra reading material. “It’s only rubbish if they put it online, not in magazines!”

His father ignores him, laughing at a scene on the telly. Adam looks between his parents, then says: “The leaders of every country in the world are refusing to help our earth and we’re all going to end up paying for it.”

His parents both stop laughing at that. They both look to him, his father in confusion, his mother in worry. He doesn’t miss this. Instead, he gets up and gathers his magazines. “I think I’m going to go to bed early.”

Neither stop him as he heads up the stairs, Dog on his heels. He sets the magazines on his bed, before flicking off the lights and closing the door. He changes into his pyjamas and crawls into bed with his torch. Dog jumps onto the bed as Adam reaches for one of the magazines, turns on the torch, and begins to read again. 

He sighs after a long moment. “The world really is awful, isn’t it?”

Dog only whines at that, resting his snout on his paws as he watches his companion read.

* * *

Aziraphale paces his closed bookshop, occasionally looking at his phone. When it finally rings, he lunges forward and picks it up. Shadwell sure found the boy fast! He picks it up, Shadwell’s name on his lips.

“ _ It’s me _ .”

Oh. He can’t help his disappointment, and feels ashamed of it. 

_ “Meet me at the third alternative rendezvous _ .” 

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut as he thinks. “Is that the old bandstand, the number 19 bus, or the British Museum cafe?”

Crowley sighs in frustration. “ _ The bandstand! I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Meet me there, angel. _ ”

He hangs up as quickly as he called, and Aziraphale. As he begins to gather his things, he remembers one of the last times they had used a rendezvous...

* * *

**1996**

Crowley is waiting for him in St. James’s Park, just like he said he would be. He’s standing by the pond, staring out at the ducks with a stonelike solemness. Aziraphale makes himself take a deep breath, and stand next to him with the small bag of duck feed, forcing down this heavy feeling in his chest that has been growing stronger and stronger every time he sees the other man. He steals a glance at Crowley to find he hasn’t acknowledged him yet. 

He sighs as he throws out some duck feed. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

Like magic, Crowley glances at him before looking out again. He takes a deep breath. “Look...I’ve been thinking. What if it all goes wrong? We are a lot alike.”

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale disagrees. “You and I may be alike, but  _ you  _ are a criminal.”

“I didn’t mean to end up this way.” Crowley retorts, but without much fine. “...I just hung out with the wrong people.

I need a favor.” 

“We already have our Arrangement, Crowley.” He stops throwing the seeds to look at him. “Don’t tell me you want another one.”

“This is different.” If Aziraphale had been paying closer attention at the time, he would have seen Crowley’s frown grow even more, seen him swallow the lump. “For if it all goes pear-shaped.”

However, Aziraphale never notices until he plays the memory back on the lonely nights after. Instead, he looks down to the bag of feed, and sighs. “I like pears. Let’s not talk about this.”

Crowley ignores him. “If it all goes wrong, and I…” His voice breaks off. He sighs and continues softly. “I want insurance.”

“What?” Aziraphale finally turns to him, setting down the bag. Crowley hands him a slip of paper.

“I wrote it down. There are ears everywhere.” Aziraphale takes it from and opens it as he rambles. “Walls have ears. Not walls,  _ trees _ . We’re outside. Trees have ears.  _ Ducks  _ have ears.” His brow furrows as he bend to examine a duck floating nearby. “Do ducks have ears? Must, otherwise how could they hear each other?”

Aziraphale doesn’t hear any of this, staring down at the words on the paper as he reads them over and over. The weight in his chest makes it almost impossible to breathe. “Out of the question!”

Crowley looks to him. “Why not?”

Aziraphale stutters as he shoves the paper. “It would  _ kill _ you. I’m not bringing you something you could kill yourself with!”

“It’s not for that.” Crowley says evenly, shoving the paper. “It’s just for insurance.” 

“I’m not giving you access to Metropolitan Police’s most  _ confidential  _ files,  _ or  _ a gun.” Aziraphale hisses.

“Why not? Having access to those files will protect  _ both of us _ -!”

“And the gun?”

“Boss doesn’t trust me with one. I have to find a way to defend myself somehow.”

“I can see why.” Aziraphale mutters, then rips the paper back from Crowley. “I’m not an  _ idiot _ !” His voice cracks at that, and he forces himself to take a deep breath, blinking up at the sky. When he trusts himself, he looks back to Crowley. “Do you know what trouble I’d be in if...if  _ they  _ knew I had been fraternizing?”

Crowley slowly looks to him, expression unreadable until he spits: “ _ Fraternizing _ ?”

“Oh, whatever you wish to call it!” He rips the paper in half. “I see no point in discussing this further.” 

“I have lots of other people to  _ fraternize  _ with, angel.” 

“Of course you do!” He rolls his eyes. 

“I don’t need you!”

“And the feeling’s mutual! Obviously!” He throws the paper into the pond, not bothering to watch it sink as he storms off. Crowley grits his teeth, and kicks the duck feed into the pond. It spills out, and the ducks tackle it. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and storms off in the opposite direction.

* * *

**Present- Friday Evening**

**One day until the End**

Crowley is waiting for him at the bandstand. Unlike last time, he’s pacing, and only stops when he sees Aziraphale. 

“Well?” Crowley asks once Aziraphale stops looking around as if they were being watched, and actually steps under the pavilion. “Any news?”

“Um…” He begins to wring his hands. “W-what sort of news would that be?” 

“Well have you found the missing boy’s name, address, and shoe size yet?” Crowley snarks. 

“Shoe size? W-why would I have his shoe size?”

Crowley stares at him for a long moment. “It’s a joke.”

“Oh…”

Crowley sighs. “I’ve got nothing either.”

“It’s their plan.” Aziraphale tries to reason. “Maybe it wasn’t...meant to be stopped.”

“...You’re kidding me, right?” Crowley begins to pace again. “Are you really saying that this plan, which will kill  _ thousands _ , if not  _ millions  _ of people, was not meant to be stopped? What great, utter  _ bullshit! _ ”

Birds fly away at the outburst, and Aziraphale jumps. He immediately steadies himself, holding his hands close. 

Crowley continues to pace. “And everyone thinks I would be  _ okay _ with this happening! Maybe I should be. After all, I’m a Demon. I’m supposed to be ruthless, lethal, remorseless.”

“But you’re a good person.”

“I  _ was. _ ” Crowley pauses for a moment. “And that was a long time ago. Before that  _ stupid _ car robbery!”

Aziraphale says nothing as Crowley closes the space between them, save for small centimeters. “We can find the boy.” He says steadily. “My agents can do it.”

“And then what? We  _ eliminate _ him?”

Crowley pauses, then shrugs. “Someone does. I may be a bad person, but I’m personally not up for killing kids.”

“Well I’m not going to. I’m the nice one! I’m an officer for the Metropolitan Police! I don’t have to kill children!” 

“Uh-uh-uh-!”

Aziraphale speaks over his pointed finger. “If you kill him, then the world gets a reprieve, and Scotland Yard doesn’t have blood on their hands.”

“Oh,  _ no blood on their hands _ . That’s a bit holier-than-thou, isn’t it?”

“Well, that’s the point!”

“You should kill the boy yourself.” Crowley hisses. 

“I am  _ not _ killing anyone!” He can’t meet Crowley’s gaze, though. He’s so close, he barely feels he can breathe.”

“This is ridiculous.” Crowley steps away. “You’re ridiculous. I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you.”

“Well frankly neither do I.”

“Enough, I’m leaving.” Crowley turns away to leave. “Fuck this.”

“You can’t leave, Crowley.” His voice breaks, and he continues softly, as if he can’t breathe around the weight on his chest. “Where will you go?”

Crowley turns to him, arms spread wide. “It’s a big world. Even if London falls into a puddle of burning goo, we could...go off together!”

“Go off together?” He asks softly. He scoffs weakly. “Listen to yourself.”

“How long have we been friends? Nearly  _ thirty years _ !” 

“ _ Friends _ ? We’re not  _ friends _ ! I don’t even like you!” He begins to storm off.

“You do!” Crowley scoffs.

Aziraphale whips around. “Even if I did know where the boy is, I wouldn’t tell you! We’re on opposite sides!”

“We’re on  _ our side! _ ” Crowley growls, slinking forward. 

“There is no ‘our side’, Crowley!” Aziraphale spits. He takes a deep breath, and looks away. “Not anymore. It’s over.”

All rage erases from Crowley’s face, becoming impassive. “Right.” He says curtly, nodding tightly. He gives Aziraphale a long look, examining him as if in a new light. “Well then…” He grunts, storming off.

Aziraphale feels the pressure building behind his eyes. He tries to blink them back with failure, and looks anywhere but Crowley as the pressure seems to be breaking his heart. Crowley leaves without another word, and Aziraphale sinks against the barrier of the bandstand. He slumps forward, one hand on his chest, the other clutching his knee. His breath is shaking. “Oh  _ God… _ ” He sobs softly. 

Why must this make his heart ache? Why must this be so difficult? 

He rubs his eyes furiously, and makes himself stand with a deep breath. He must carry on.


	11. Now I'm Here

**Chapter 11- Now I’m Here**

_ “Here I stand _

_ (here I stand) _

_ Looked around, around, around, around, around _

_ But you won’t see me  _

_ (but you won’t see me).”  _

**The Day of the End**

Aziraphale wrings his hands as he walks down the park pathway. It’s just before dawn on the day of the End, but Captain Gabriel is nowhere to be found. 

Someone runs past him. He turns to nod a greeting, but freezes when he sees the familiar shape of his captain. With a gasp, he hurries to catch up with him. His suit was not made for jogging, and his pocket watch hits against his chest, but he manages to keep pace with somewhat erratic breathing. “It’s me.”

“Yes, I know it’s you, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, right. Look, we need to get word to the Commissioner. T-there’s been prophecies.” 

Gabriel shrugs. “And? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, um, they’ve prophesied multiple past events with complete accuracy. I-it says that the world is supposed to end today, just after tea time!”

“There’s no guarantee those would be true. Why bother the Commissioner with that?”

“Look, will you  _ please _ just stop for a minute?” Aziraphale has already stopped running, but his plea gets Gabriel to slow to a stop with a sigh. He waits with a silent impatience as Aziraphale bends over, catching his breath.

“Well?” Gabriel asks finally. 

“I just…” Aziraphale straightens, still trying to catch his breath. “I just thought there was something we could do.”

“There is.” Gabriel smiles. “We can fight. And win!”

“But it doesn’t have to be this way. We don’t have to wage war against the Demons!”

“Of course there does. Otherwise, how would we win it?” Gabriel waits for a challenge from Aziraphale with a smirk. When he doesn’t respond, Gabriel continues. “Listen, I was going to tell you later today, but I’m pulling you out of the field.”

“ _ You are? _ ” Aziraphale’s voice grows fainter, and not from exertion. 

“Of course! We need every officer available today. So, look, wrap up whatever you have at that bookshop of yours and…” He steals a glance down, then gives Aziraphale a disappointed look. “Make sure you still fit in your uniform with that gut of yours.”

Aziraphale feels his cheeks grow red from the sting of the comment. “I…”

Gabriel grins. “Come on! You were a  _ lean, mean, fighting machine _ .” He accentuates each word with a feint punch to the gut, which makes Aziraphale step back. “Be ready by the time we fight!” He claps a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder before jogging off.

“But I…” But Gabriel is already jogging away. He sighs, slumping forward. “I’m  _ soft. _ ”

* * *

In another part of town, the postman is fixing his uniform in the dark. He tries to not make a sound, and as a result pauses in confusion when a lamp behind him flicks on. 

“Leslie?” A soft voice asks. He turns to see his wife sit up in bed, still in her nightclothes. She pats his empty spot. “Come back to bed.”

He can’t help but smile at her fondly as he finishes buttoning his uniform. “Can’t, love. I’ve got deliveries to make.”

Her brow furrows and she suddenly seems more awake. “On a Saturday morning?”

“Well, at least it’s local. Two more jobs, and I’m done.”

“Leslie.” She breathes, and he looks up from where he is putting on his watch. “Who are these deliveries for?”

He pauses, before whispering honestly. “I don’t know, Maude. Someone important.”  _ Someone dangerous _ , he decides not to say. That would give his poor wife a heart attack. “Anyway...ours is not to reason why.” He slips on his cap. “Ours...is to deliver packages. And once I’m done, I’ll be back with you.”

She smiles at that, and reaches down the bed. “I love you... _ tiger. _ ”

His heart skips a beat at the pet name, and he hurries to catch his breath again. “And I love  _ you _ , Maude.” He blows her a kiss, and she catches it with a teasing grin. 

_ Surely fifteen minutes wouldn’t hurt… _

__ _ No, _ he thinks with disappointment,  _ this has to be done. _

Instead, he chuckles and heads out the door for the final packages.

* * *

“Come in.” Gabriel calls at the knock on his office door. When the door opens, he looks up from the files he was examining, and puts them away. “Michael.”

“We need to have a word.” She says, closing the door behind her, one of her hands still behind her back. Gabriel gestures for her to continue, so she does. 

“I may be out of line, but I was following up on Aziraphale’s comments in yesterday’s conference.” Gabriel straightens at that, elbows on the desk. “I went back through our camera files, about thirty years ago. And this is what I found.”

From behind her back, she pulls out the photos, and spreads them across Gabriel’s desk. Gabriel’s brow furrows as he examines each. In each, he can see Aziraphale, and one other man…

“Do we know who that man is?”

She nods. “Anthony J. Crowley, age forty-nine. In 1987, he was arrested in a car robbery, and served two years in prison. Since he has a criminal record, he has been working for Morningstar company ever since.”

“...I’m sure there’s a completely innocent explanation for this. Morningstar does have workers who have become legitimate businesspeople.” 

“Oh, of course!” Michael agrees, “But look at this car right here.” She points at the black Bentley in one of the photos. “Wasn’t the car that was at the Winslett’s that night? That has also been seen at multiple other crimes. We never saw the driver. But, Mr. Crowley  _ owns _ that car, and guess what Crowley sounds similar to.”

Gabriel looks up to her with a furrowed brow. “Surely Aziraphale hasn’t been with Crawly this entire time? He said he wasn’t sure what Crawly looked like. These photos say otherwise.”

When Gabriel doesn’t answer, she continues. “It’s a hunch more than anything. However, I can check through back channels.”

“There are no back channels, Michael.” But he’s smiling, so she returns the smile alongside a nod before exiting his office again, leaving him to examine the photos.

She hurries past the busy bullpen, pulling her phone out of her uniform pocket. She keeps glancing about her at her fellow officers as she makes a beeline to the stairwell. Once the door slams shut behind, she hurries down to the next landing as she dials the familiar number. She stops on the landing, bringing her cellphone to her ear. 

“It’s me.” She says once the line picks up, before the other man can say a word. “It’s our man, Aziraphale Pritchard. Is there any possibility he’s working for you?”

She can hear the other search through files, before confirming a negative. She sighs at that.

“Well then, you might want to check into the movements of Crawly. Alias Anthony J. Crowley. I would check the apartment complex on Rathbone in Mayfair. He seems to have motives of his own.”

She looks up to see someone coming down the stairs towards her. She gives them a smile, until they pass, where she zones back in to the doubts of the other. 

“Of course you can trust me.” She scoffs. “We’ll be looking for our man. I would advise taking care of your loose end as well.” With that, she hangs up, and heads back up the stairs. 

On the other end of the line, Ligur hangs up the phone in his dark office, and folds his hands together. “Oh, Crawly…” He asks with a grin, “What have you been getting yourself into?”

* * *

Crowley, meanwhile, nearly wrenches the drawers out of his cabinet, scooping up all of his immaculately folded clothes, before throwing them into a large suitcase. He was going to have to get out of here  _ fast _ if he wanted to avoid the upcoming fight. 

He paces once he throws all the clothes in the suitcase, trying to think straight through the panic. 

“Where can I go…?” He whispers to himself. He hurries to his office. There, he takes the globe and spins it once, finger landing on England. He examines it, then shakes his head. “Too close.”

He continues tracing his finger across the globe. “Spain’s too close...Africa is connected to Europe. Anything there is out.” He traces across to the United States, wrinkles his nose, before continuing north. His finger pauses in Canada. “Well, I suppose that would work. Perhaps there’s a mountain range where I can disappear.” He withdraws his hand from the globe. In exhaustion, he slumps back into the throne for his desk. 

He sighs, rubbing his hands over his eyes. This was all so much, so fast...He was going to have to leave  _ everything _ . His plants, his rare paintings and sculptures, his  _ Bentley _ ,  _ Aziraphale _ …

“I can’t do this.” He whispers, fingers tangling in his hair. He can’t leave everything behind. As much as he wants to, it feels as if his feet had been glued to the ground. Trapped. 

He groans, and with a growl, smacks the globe off the desk. It clatters to the floor.

“I’m tired of being  _ trapped _ !” He screams into his empty apartment. It echoes back to him as he struggles to control his breathing. He knows he’s failing as he pushes to his feet, and the throne is tipped backward. “I’ve been trapped for over thirty years! Hell, maybe even my entire life has been one big prison, before I even went to prison!”

He slams his hands down on the desk. Immediately, all anger is sucked out of him as he slumps, breathing hard. It becomes harder to breathe as he fights back pressure behind his eyes. 

“Oh,  _ God… _ ” He looks up to a God above, one he hasn’t believed in for over thirty years. “I just want to be free.”

* * *

**Late 1986**

“Anthony!” A younger voice calls to him as he locks up for the night. He tries to ignore the ache in his bones and the holes in the soles in his shoes as he turns at his friend’s voice and the rumble of an engine. He nearly drops his keys to the shop as his friend rolls up to the curb.

“Dude!” He runs over to the sports car, and leans in. “Where did you get this?”

His friend driving, Henry, grins. “Got it as a gift from my brother. I guess he’s been making a lot of money at his new job.”

“I’ll say.” Anthony gapes, then looks up to Henry. “Can I drive?”

Henry nods and parks, before climbing out. From the back, two more boys groan. “No fair!” Andrew, the youngest, shouts. “How come he gets to drive?”

“Yeah! Why?” His (slightly older) brother, Will complains.

“He actually has his license.” Henry points out as he climbs in the passenger. “Plus, who knows when he’ll get to drive something this nice again. He’s still got to pay off his mum’s funeral bills, and keep his dad from drinking himself to death.”

Anthony hasn’t entered the car yet, still gaping at the front. Henry sighs, and leans out the window. 

“Anthony!” Anthony jumps at his name, and looks to Henry, who gives him a look of fond exasperation. “You coming?”

His heart is racing in his chest, and he nods. “Y-yeah. Coming!” He hurries to the driver’s side and climbs in. Henry smiles at him, and the fluttering of his heart grows as he grins back. 

He and Henry were practically inseparable, since childhood. They grew up in the same slum, went to the same underfunded school, and now shared  _ everything _ with each other. Well, Anthony hasn’t shared his weird feelings...how he doesn’t always feel like a boy, or that these feelings he has for Henry might be more than a friend…

He shakes his head, as he tests the gas pedal. When it roars, he can’t help the thrill racing through him as he shifts to drive and peels out. The boys all whoop at the speed, and sharp turn Anthony makes. The windows are rolled down, which allow the wind to play with his shaggy, unkempt hair. For the first time in over a year, since his mother’s illness and her death, he feels at peace…

This peace is quickly shattered at the sound of a siren. He glances up in the rearview mirror to see a police officer. He curses, but begins to pull over. He jumps when Henry lunges over and wrenches the wheel in the opposite direction. 

“Henry! What are you doing?” He asks, voice cracking. 

“Just drive!” Henry commands. 

“Are you crazy?!” 

Henry pulls out a gun, and points it at Anthony. “I said  _ drive _ !”

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Anthony slams on the gas without meaning, and they roar on. “Put that down!”

“Listen!” Henry says, demeanor so different from the cheerful boy Anthony was used to. “I lied. My brother didn’t buy this for me; he hasn’t made jack  _ shit _ since starting that new job. It’s a hard world, Anthony, and we’ve got to take our share.”

“By  _ stealing a car _ ?”

“And then some. And if you’re smart, you’ll keep driving.”

“You’re crazy!” 

“Uh guys…” Andrew pipes up from the back. 

“Shut up!” Henry turns the gun on Andrew. 

“Hey!” Anthony grabs his arm. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ point the gun at those kids!”

“Or what?” Henry challenges. 

“Guys  _ look out _ !”

Anthony whips back around to see the intersection, with a dead end straight ahead into a pond. His eyes widen and he slams on the brakes, but it’s too late. 

The sports car hits the fence and flips. Henry drops the gun, and Anthony hits his head on the roof as they splash into the pond, bottom up. 

Anthony tries to catch his breath past the pain, before twisting around. “Andrew? Will!” 

Both blink owlishly up at him. Andrew is beginning to sob, so he shushes them gently. 

“Let’s get you out of here.” With a grunt of pain he twists out of his seat and climbs over to the boys. He grunts as he forces his elbow into the glass of the rear window. Glass rains down, and he bites back a curse at the glass in his elbow as he scoops Will up. “Climb on out. Quickly!”

Will scrambles up, and Anthony helps Andrew through with a grunt. Will pulls his brother up, then looks to Anthony. “Are you coming?”

Anthony steals a glance back at Henry. He’s passed out in the passenger seat, blood painting the side of his face. His heart clenches at the side.

_ No. He held you at gunpoint. Leave him here. _

_ But… _ his heart clenches tighter, and he bites his lip. He looks back to Will and Andrew. “Can you swim?”

They both nod.

“Get to shore. I’ll be right behind you.”

They nod again, and Will pulls Andrew out of sight. He turns back to Henry. With shaking hands, he drags Henry out of the seat by one arm. Henry groans and Anthony winces. 

“Sorry...just hold on.” Now that he can reach, Anthony hooks his arms under his armpits drags him towards the back of the car. It tilts at the shift in weight, and Anthony gasps as he clings to the car. When everything stills again, he hefts up Henry again and crawls out of the rear window backwards. He tries not to cry out as the glass shards scratch up his back and tear his uniform, but lifts Henry so he doesn’t drag across the glass. As he steps out into the water, he finds it to not be extremely deep, so he continues to drag Henry through the water. He’s breathing so hard, he doesn’t hear that he is no longer alone in the lake until-

“FREEZE!” The voice and bright light suddenly on him causes him to drop Henry. Landing in the cold water wakes him with a gasp, and he stares up at Anthony, trying to process where he is. “TURN AND HOLD YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”

Anthony slowly raises his hands and turns towards the bright light. He has to squint in order to see the police officer pointing the gun at him. He doesn’t move, however the officer’s attention is diverted when Henry starts flopping away. The gun moves to Henry. “Don’t move!”

Henry is gasping, and points a shaky finger at Anthony. “H-he stole the car, and made us tag along! We told him to pull over, but he pulled a gun out at me before crashing the car!”

“ _ What? _ ” Anthony looks to Henry at that. “I didn’t steal the car!”

“He did, he did! He could have killed me!”

“No...No I wouldn’t-!”

The officer points the gun back at Anthony. “Get on the ground!”

“But-!”

“I said GET ON THE GROUND!” Two more officers rush forward. One of them swings their baton at the back of his legs and he screams as he crumples. Water blinds his vision for a moment, but just long enough to allow the officers to pin his arms behind his back and cuff them. 

“I’m innocent!” He screams out. “I  _ didn’t do it! _ ”

The officer ignores him. The other two pull him to his feet, and he can see they’ve attracted a crowd, including a local news team. And among them…

“Will! Andrew!” He digs his feet into the ground as they begin to pass the two boys draped in towels. “You were there! Tell them I’m innocent!”

Neither boy can look at him. Behind Anthony, Henry gives them a knowing glare and smirk. 

“Please…” Anthony begs. “ _ Please! _ I saved your lives! I’m innocent!”

“Quiet!” One of the officers snaps, and overpowers him, carrying him where his feet aren’t touching the ground, so he’s kicking in the air. His voice is growing hoarse from screaming, but he refuses to relent as they shove him in the police cruiser. It’s only when a baton strikes his gut, knocking the air out of him, that he stops. The door slams shut in his face and two officers climb in the front. 

“I swear,” one of the officers mutters, turning on the cruiser, “these kids in the slums have no upbringing anymore. Someone should just take them off the streets already.”

Anthony barely hears them. He presses against the car window, eyes boring into the crowd watching in horror. He can’t find any shame in the tears rolling down his face as Will and Andrew still can’t look at them. Behind them, Henry puts a hand on both their hands, and gives him a victorious grin. 

The cruiser drives away, leading him to a trial most would find laughable, to two years in a grey prison cell, trying to live through each day, and then to freedom as a marked man, the young boy shattered and squashed into nothing. But out of everything, every detail of this night would be burned into his memory until his dying day.

* * *

Leslie the postman pulls to a stop to the side of the empty road. He double checks the coordinates in his phone to the ones he was given, before slipping out with the package. He quickly looks to either side of the road before crossing, and hurrying onto the well tread path.

It begins in the trees, and he remembers that much. Many years ago, when he and Maud were still young, they would take this path to the beautiful river. It was considered a romantic hideaway for all of the couples their age. He and Maud had spent many days there, cuddling, kissing, and on one memorable occasion...well, they were young. 

_ God, I can’t wait to see her again.  _

_ Two more deliveries and I’m done. _

When the trees part into the clearing by the river, his heart sinks at the sight. Water that was once clear and blue was now grey and filled with garbage. The grass has been ripped up and stained with oil. Cardboard boxes, leftover takeout meals, used condoms, all of those sort of things litter the ground. Sitting on the bench among the trash is someone dressed in stained white, with chalky hair, looking out over the river. 

He bites back his disappointment, and approaches the figure. “Party by the name of Chalky, sir?”

They don’t acknowledge him right away. “Look at that river.”

“Yes, sir. It’s the pollution. Progress, you could call it.” He scoffs at the notion. 

“It’s just so... _ damn beautiful _ .” They smile at that, and Leslie feels his own fade.

“It’s a funny old world, isn’t it? And make no mistake, I’ve gone all over the world. South Africa, Des Moines- that’s in America-and now here I am. Practically in my own backyard. Though it’s not like I remember.”

They finally glance at him. 

“Oh! And here’s your parcel.” He holds out the box and clipboard to them. “You’ll have to sign for it, sir.”

They wordlessly sign, before taking the package. Leslie, meanwhile, is looking up at the sky. “Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning...or was it sailor’s warning?”

“Everybody’s warning.” They answer, not moving to open the package, but still staring up at him.

He tries not to squirm under their gaze as he takes the clipboard back. “Right. I’ll um...I’ll leave you to it, then.”

They watch him hurry to leave with an eerie sort of calmness. Once he’s out of sight, they turn their attention to the package. They rip open the package, and their jaw drops in awe at the sight. The crown.  _ Finally _ !

They throw the package to the side before lifting the crown to eye level. This had belonged to their predecessor, known to all as Pestilence. He had a slight hand for biological warfare, creating new strains and illnesses that took out millions before a cure could be found. He taught them everything they know now. When he retired, he passed on the mission to them, along with instructions for the coming times. In their waiting, they’ve killed more people than their teacher, and now as they place the crown on their head, they know their name has been earned.

_ Pollution _ .

* * *

Leslie finally makes it back to the mail truck. He opens the back to only find...a letter. As he reaches for it, he finds his name written on the front. With a furrowed brow, he heads back to his seat. He rips open the letter, and reads it to himself silently.

“No…” When he looks up into his rearview mirror, he can see tears in his eyes. He blinks them back with little success, before beginning to dig for a pen and paper. When he finds it, he leans against the dashboard, sniffs, and begins to write. 

There’s so much he wants to say to her, so much he could remind her of, and of what he thought of her. But words fail where tears arise, so he merely pens out: 

_ I love you, Maude. _

The roar of an engine makes him jump. He glances into his rearview mirror again to find a black bike has roared to a stop behind him. The rider, dressed in all black, climbs off the bike. 

_ This was it. _

With a deep sigh, he folds his note to Maude, places it on the dashboard, and climbs out to meet the rider. 

“I’ve got a message for you, sir.” He says as he approaches. The rider stops, and Leslie realizes he hasn’t taken off his helmet, which covers his entire face. He also sees the gun strapped to his side. He blinks and forces himself to meet the faceless man. “Not a package, but a message.”

The rider cocks his head, then says in a voice that seems to be older than time itself. “Deliver it, then.”

The voice makes his breathing pick up, but he struggles to contain it. “It’s just this: ‘Come and see’.”

For a moment, the rider is silent. Then he laughs, sending chills up Leslie’s spine. “Finally!”

Leslie shakes his head. “What does it mean, sir?” 

“It’s a call to action!” He tightens his gloves as he explains. “War, and Famine, Pollution and  _ Death _ . Today, we ride.”

Death finishes with his gloves, but Leslie can’t look away from his mask as a hand reaches down to the gun on his belt. “Now, don’t think of it as dying. Think of it as leaving early to avoid the rush.”

Before Leslie can move, Death pulls out the gun. Leslie gasps.

_ CRACK! _

Death, the leader and most dangerous of the Four Horsemen, is on the move once again. 

* * *

Newt stands in front of the couch at Shadwell’s apartment at nine o’clock, on the dot. That’s when Shadwell had told him to be here for his first mission, and to earn his ‘armor of righteousness’. 

However, when Sergeant Shadwell still hasn’t appeared at 9:05, he begins to sit down.

“ _ Attention _ !” Newt jumps and straightens as Shadwell comes to stand in front of him. He looks to the map on the wall, before gesturing to it with his head. 

“This is our country. It’s under our protection. Wish I was going with you.” But he chuckles at that. “I’m too old now. No more lying in the bracken, spying on their evil ways.”

“Erm...Sergeant Shadwell?”

“Aye?” Shadwell says distantly.

“...Where  _ exactly _ am I going?”

Shadwell’s expression drops at that. “Did I not tell you?”

“No sir.”

He huffs and mutters to himself as he digs through his pockets. “Aha!” He pulls out a slip of paper and hands it over to him. “You’re going to Tadfield. The address is on this slip of paper.”

Newt takes it after a pause. “...Thank you.” He opens it to find the address and a name.

“Aye.” Shadwell returns to his speech. “It’s all up to you now, Witchfinder Private Pulsifer. Find this Adam Young, and keep an eye on him.”

Newt nods. Then he pauses, brow furrowing. “Shouldn’t there be a few more of us if we’re protecting the entire country from witches?”

Shadwell raises his eyebrows. “Nobody said it would be easy, Private Pulsifer. Here.” He holds out a coat for him. “Put this on.”

Newt stuffs the paper in his pocket before taking the coat, and slipping it on. Shadwell chuckles before picking up the next item. “Pendulum of Discovery.”

Newt takes it and examines it. “Pendulum of Discovery.”

“Thumbscrews.”

Newt hesitates this time. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be needing this-”

Shadwell shoves it in his face. “Thumbscrews!”

“Thumbscrews.” Newt relents and takes them. Shadwell sighs and picks up the next item, holding it up for him. 

“Firelighters.”

Yet again, Newt hesitates. “...I’m not actually prepared to  _ burn _ anyone-”

“Firelighters!”

“Firelighters.” He weakly takes them. 

“Bell.” Shadwell holds it up, and it rings softly.

“Bell.” Newt repeats, placing the bell in the crook of his arm. 

“Book.”

“Book.”

“And...candle.” He holds out a birthday candle to Newt. 

“Bell, book, candle.” Newt repeats as Shadwell leans down to grab something. He thinks about it, then leans towards him. “What are they for?”

Shadwell looks up to him as if he asked for what the color of the sky was. “You might have to exorcise a demon.”

Newt’s jaw drops. “How do I do that?”

“Ring the bell. Light the candle.”

“...Read the book?”

Shadwell gives him a deadpan look. “There’ll be no time for light reading when you’re under demonic attack, laddie.”

“...Right.”

Shadwell sighs. “And finally…” He holds it out. “Pin.”

“...Pin?”

“Aye.” He nods solemnly. “It’s the bayonet in your army of light.”

Newt takes it between two fingers. For a moment, the two stand, looking at each other as Newt struggles to balance his ‘armor’. 

“Well,” He says finally, “off to Tadfield then.”

It must be a trick of light, that Shadwell gives him a smile of pride. “Off you go, Witchfinder Private Pulsifer. And may the armies of glory march beside you.” Shadwell salutes him. After a pause, in which Newt resituates everything in his arms, he salutes back. 

* * *

Ligur pushes through the crowded corridor, until it finally opens up to a collection of offices. He takes the well-known path to the second door on the left. He pushes open the door, making Hastur jump. 

“Unless you’re here to fix this  _ bloody  _ leak, then get the fuck out before-” He looks up to see Ligur, and relaxes. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Just got a call.” Ligur says, and closes the door behind him. “It’s about Crawly.”

“Is it now?” Hastur huffs at the leakage from the roof. “Look at that! I’m supposed to be on the way to Westminster  _ now, _ not waiting on maintenance to fix this.”

Ligur glances up to it, and grimaces. 

“What about Crawly?” Hastur asks, examining the contents of the bucket over his desk. 

“I have...news that he’s not who he says he is.”

“Did you assume his name was actually Crawly?” When Ligur hesitates, Hastur continues. “Because I did.”

“He might be working with a cop.”

Hastur stops at that, and looks to him. His gaze is hard to read. “Are you sure?”

Ligur nods, “My informant told me they had proof. Told me to check his flat, and look for someone by the name of Anthony J. Crowley.”

Hastur can’t help but grin at that. “Well, we’ll go by. After I go to our boss’s son. Then we’ll put him in his place.” He begins to cackle, and Ligur joins in.

However, Hastur stops when water sprays on his head from the leak. Sputtering and cursing, he looks up to where the leak has slowed again. “ _ Fuckin’  _ maintenence.”

* * *

Newt barely makes it to Tadfield before he crashes. 

It’s not his fault. A cat darts out in the road in front of him, and he doesn’t want to hit the poor animal, so he swerves. He doesn’t see the tree beyond that. 

Adam and the Them are walking near the field of Old Man Ripley’s property when they hear tires squeal before a loud  _ CRASH _ ! They jump off the fence immediately, and run to the scene. 

The blue car has flipped, three wheels in the air. Dog runs ahead of the children, yipping sharply. After a moment, the front driver pushes open and Newt falls out with a groan. The world is blurry, but four blurs rush towards him. He groans again as eight hands grab his hands and lift him to his feet. They let go of him, and he stumbles back, vision clearing to see four children looking up at him. His balance fails, and he falls backwards. 

He grunts, and sighs, head pounding. For a moment everything goes dark and silent. 

“He’s hurt!” The boy’s voice wakes him up. “Come on, we should do something!”

He slowly sits up as another boy says: “We should get him away from the car. It might blow up. They always blow up in movies.”

“Dick Turpin won’t blow up.” Newt slurs, swaying. “You’re probably wondering why it’s called Dick Turpin.” He feels something on his lip, and wipes it off with a finger. He examines it, and his stomach twists at the sight of blood. He groans, fighting bile up his throat. His eyes roll into the back of his head. He falls back, and he knows nothing.

“Hey!” Someone is shaking him just moments later, starling him awake. Pepper frowns at him, then glances to Adam, who is staring at him intently. 

“I know where to take him. Let’s get him up.”

The Them nod and help Newt back up to his feet. This time they don’t let go of him, helping him across. Adam lets go to take lead. “Follow me.”

Jasmine Cottage isn’t far from the edge of town, so the walk is only slightly laborious on the children dragging a half-conscious man they found in the woods. “Anathema!” Adam calls up the walkway. He can see her in the window, watching them approach with a mysterious expression on her face. “We found a man!”

For a moment she doesn’t move, simply watching them. When she and Adam meet gaze, she slowly moves to the door and opens it as they help Newt up the porch.

“He was in a car accident.” Adam tries to explain as he passes her.

“I know.” She closes the door behind them, grabbing a prepared medical bag off the counter. “Follow me.”

They drag Newt down the hall until they reach the bedroom at the end of the hall. 

“You can lay him down here.”

They nod and ease Newt onto the bed. He groans, disoriented. Oddly, Anathema gives him a dirty look before opening the bag. She turns to the nearest child, Wensleydale, with a rag. “Can you wet this for me?”

“Actually, I can.” He takes the rag and hurries off to the washroom. Anathema returns to the bag, and pulls out a bottle of aspirin. She dumps two into her hand, before shaking Newt’s shoulder.

“Hey.” He sleepily looks at her at that. “Take these. They’ll help.”

He doesn’t nod, barely blinks, but slowly reaches for the pills and swallows them dry. He groans as his head lays back against the pillow again. 

Anathema sets the pill bottle on the nightstand, and turns just in time to take the rag from Wensleydale. “Thank you.” She wipes the blood from his nose, before folding up the rag, and rising.

“The best thing for him now is rest.” She gestures with her head to the door. “Come on, you four. You can have some lemonade.” They nod silently and follow as Newt begins to snore.

Once back downstairs, Anathema sets the rag in the sink before washing her hands. Pepper takes in the organized bag on the table. “It’s like you were expecting him.”

Anathema dries her hands before beginning to grab glasses. “I was.” She sets four down on the table before grabbing lemonade from the fridge. “I was hoping he wouldn’t come.”

Adam stands near the table when something on the wall catches his eye. Brow furrowing, he approaches without being noticed by anyone. 

“If he didn’t come,” Anathema continues, “then none of this would be real.”

“What do you mean?” Pepper asks. Adam stares wide eyed at a photo of a man with dark hair and harsh features. He seems harsh, unfamiliar. And yet, his eyes remind him of someone…

Anathema sighs. “There’s...a child I’m supposed to be looking for. He’s supposed to be the Weapon.”

Adam’s eyes rove to the map of Tadfield, and all the red x’s. Then, they move to a description of the child and their hound. They...they sound like monsters. The hound is supposed to be snarling with sharp teeth and stronger than any normal man. The boy is supposed to have those same piercing eyes as the man (like the ones he sees in the mirror every morning), and a penchant for mischief or evil. The thing that will make this child stand out is a scar on the inner collarbone, which contains a microchip. This microchip is to be activated on his 11th birthday when he names the hound, and leads the bringers of destruction to him...so he can destroy everything…

Adam pulls his shirt slightly back to look at his collarbone, at the faint scar. His parents had claimed that a nun had accidentally cut him (Lord knows how), and it had healed over. But what if…? It couldn’t be…

“Weapon?” Pepper asks.

Anathema shakes her head. “It’s...it’s nothing to worry about.” She replaces her worry with a smile. “Would any of you like a sandwich?”

“Actually,” Wensleydale says, rising, “I have a healthy lunch waiting at home.”

“Me too.” Brian chimes in. 

“Bye, Anathema.” Pepper is about to follow the two boys out. She looks back, and finds Adam staring at something on the wall. “Adam?”

He jumps, looking away from the photo of his father, and snaps: “I didn’t say you could leave!”

The three start. Pepper takes a step back, a frown and glare setting in.

What was he  _ doing _ ? He needed to hold it together. Try to figure this out. What was he supposed to do with all this newfound power, anyway?

He relaxes, and smiles at her. “Sorry. See you after lunch.”

Pepper nods suspiciously, glare lessening only slightly, before following the boys out. 

Anathema looks between the trio and Adam as she closes the door. “Everything alright, Adam?”

“Hm?” He looks to her, before staring at his feet and nodding. “I’m okay. I just need to take a walk.”

Before she can respond, he slips past her and opens the door. He hits the porch, and keeps a steady walk until he passes her yard. Then, he takes off into the forest.

* * *

The American jeep has an escort that stops traffic in Westminster. They pass everyone towards the towering Abbey. Once the escort, American agents jump out of their cars and secure their area, before one goes to open the door of the jeep. 

The first one is out is Mr. Thaddeus Dowling, the ambassador, who smoothes his suit out. On the other side, another agent opens the door let out Mrs. Harriet Dowling, who gives a courteous smile. It quickly fades into a glower once she passes the guard and hurries to her husband’s side. Finally, Warlock ambles behind them, hands shoved in pockets. 

“Honey?” Harriet hisses to her husband. “What are we doing here?”

“This, honey, is part of what I do.” Thaddeus sighs. “One moment you’re at a nice dinner with all the officials of Britain. The next you’re being introduced to a World Heritage Site in the heart of the city.”

“But why here? We’re not even religious.” 

“You don’t argue with the State Department, hon.” He says tightly, stealing a glance to the door of the Abbey. 

Something apparently dawns on her. “Is it because I said the President’s wife looked like a floozy?” Thaddeus gives her a frustrated glare at that. “Because I never said that.”

He opens his mouth to respond, when the doors open. He snaps his mouth, and Harriet slaps on a superficial grin as two men approach them. 

“Welcome to Westminster Abbey.” The first man, a priest says. “I am Father James. And this is your tour guide, my assistant…”

The second man, wearing a disheveled suit with sweat stains, and a stench that made Harriet and Thaddeus resist the urge to plug their noses, nods. “I’m Hastur...LaVista.” 

“Interesting name.” Harriet comments through a forced grin. 

“I shall hope to see all of you soon.” The priest nods, before returning to the Abbey.

Hastur examines the two adults. “Which one of you is the ambassador?”

“Thaddeus Dowling, at your service.” He steps forward, holding out his hand. He puts a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “And my wife, Harriet.”

“An honour.” Hastur says absently as he passes them by, heading straight for Warlock. The boy looks up at him. “You must be Warlock!”

Warlock nods a couple times, before simply saying: “You smell like poo.”

“Warlock!” Harriet hisses, but Hastur laughs. 

“Funny boy! Always love a good joke, me.” He then turns his attention back to Warlock. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You and your…” He finally looks around to find  _ just _ the boy. “Where’s the dog?”

“So, Mr. LaVista,” Thaddeus approaches, “I did some reading, and learned that the Abbey has been the resting place for seventeen monarchs, which is quite fascinating-”

“ _ Will you shut up _ ?” Hastur turns on him with a spat, before demanding: “Where’s the dog?”

Thaddeus furrows his brow. “I’m not sure I understand, Mr. LaVista, but we don’t have a dog.”

“You don’t?” His breath catches, and he turns back to Warlock. “You don’t have a dog?!”

“Oh course I do!” Warlock grins. “He even talks to me.”

“He does?” What an unexpected development! “What does he say?”

Warlock remains tightlipped.

“Tell me what he tells you!”

“He tells me...that you smell like poo.”

Hastur feels his stomach drop. There is no dog. This isn’t his boss’s son. 

But Crawly had watched the boy for ten years, and guaranteed that the Hound had arrived! There’s no way he could have been wrong. 

...Unless…

Ligur’s earlier words return, ringing in his head. He really was up to no good!

“That  _ bastard _ !” Hastur spits, and the Dowlings step back. Hastur ignores them and storms down the stairs of the Abbey. “I’ll kill him! I swear to God, I’ll kill that Crawly if it’s the last thing I do!”


	12. Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

**Chapter 12- Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy**

_ “Dining at the Ritz, we’ll meet at nine precisely _

_ (one two three four five six seven eight nine o’clock) _

_ I’ll pay the bill, you taste the wine _

_ Driving back in style, in my saloon will do quite nicely _

_ Just take me back to yours that will be fine.”  _

**New Years Eve, 1999**

The clock of this church and one nearby both ring the eleventh hour as Aziraphale hurries towards the old building, bag clenched in hand. He keeps stealing glances around, praying no one sees him. He can’t be caught doing this. Gabriel would be proud of him after the fact of catching a large ring of White Supremacists in the act, but for now...it seems suspicious.

Well, the ends justify the means. He hopes.

He pushes open the door of the small chapel, removes his hat, and slowly makes his way to the altar. He tries not to meet the gaze of the armed guards on either side of the two men, and especially tries not to look at their large guns. 

“Mr. Glozier. Mr. Harmony.” Mr. Glozier checks his watch as Aziraphale addresses them. 

“Mr. Fell.” Mr. Glozier says coldly. “You are late. But not to worry...this time.”

Mr. Harmony rises and slowly approaches. “You have the books for us?”

“Yes, I do.” He steals a glance to the guards before approaching the altar and placing the books on it. He steps back and gives a shaky grin, hyper-aware of the gun hidden by the folds of his coat. “Books of prophecy. Otwell Binns, Robert Nixon, Mother Shipton…” Mr. Glozier merely raises his eyebrows at that as he picks up one of the books. “All first editions, as requested.”

“What about the other book we told you to bring us?” Mr. Harmony demands. “The one with completely accurate prophecies? We were definite that we needed it. With the book of true prophecies, we can ensure that us Aryans can return our intended power.”

“ _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch _ .” Aziraphale nods. “No luck.”

Mr. Glozier looks up from his book at that. “Why not? We made it clear that money was no object.”

“You will be a very rich man.” Mr. Harmony adds.

“The unsold copies were destroyed by the publisher.” Aziraphale explains. “Which was...well, all of them. It never sold a single copy.”

The men stare at him, and he wonders if he should grab his gun. However, after a moment, Mr. Harmony nods. “We will let our boss know.”

Mr. Glozier nods in satisfaction, restoring the books to the bag. “These books will be useful in this war for our rightful place.”

“You have been most helpful.” Mr. Harmony adds, before snapping his fingers. The guards lift their guns and point them at Aziraphale.

“Such a shame you will have to be eliminated.” Mr. Glozier continues, reclined in his seat. “But take heart, for you helped our cause tremendously.”

_ Damn! _ Aziraphale glances between the other men, otherwise frozen in place. He could reach for his gun, but they would shoot him before he even lifted his gun.  _ Damn it, damn it!  _ How did he get outsmarted? Gabriel could find him in this state, having just helped one of the most violent White Supremacist and Neo-Nazi groups in the entire United Kingdom! Or worse…

“ _ Shit _ !” Everyone looks around the otherwise empty chapel for the sixth voice. 

Mr. Glozier sends a sharp look to the guards. “Well what are you waiting for? Find them!”

One of the guards turns from Aziraphale, aiming their gun at the fabric curtain near the back wall, next to the statue of the Virgin Mary. “You’re outnumbered! Come out with your hands up!” 

There’s a small pause, before Crowley comes out from behind the curtain statue, hands near his eyes. Aziraphale’s eyes widen, and the heavy feeling is back in full force for the first time in three years. “What are  _ you  _ doing here?”

Crowley looks at him. As always, his shades hide his expression, but he can still feel Crowley’s gaze. “Try to stop you from getting into trouble, what else?”

Aziraphale scoffs. “You work with these men, don’t you?”

Crowley literally takes a step back, to the protest of the guard. He’s ignored as Crowley wrinkles his nose. “ _ No! _ They’re a bunch of half-witted racists who think they’re better than everyone, and killing people for it. I just didn’t want to see you embarrassed.”

“Oh, I thought I knew your voice.” Mr. Glozier comments, looking at Crowley. “You’re Crawly, the Devil’s driver. Your fame precedes you.”

Crowley lowers his hands to tip his hat at that, much to the displeasure of his guard. “Keep your hands up!” Crowley rolls his eyes at that (not that anyone can see him), and raises his hands again.

Mr. Glozier gives an amused huff at that. “Such a shame you must both die.”

Crowley glances to the gun in the guard’s hands, then does a double take. “Whoa! You’re going to have to tell me where you got your gun, because I’m going to need myself one of those.”

The guard ignores him, cocking the gun with an audible  _ click _ .

“Wait wait wait!” Crowley begs. “Can I have a last request?”

The room is silent at that. “...If you must.” Mr. Glozier relents, before nodding to the guard, who steps back. “What is it?”

Crowley runs his hands on his pants. “I just need a smoke. I’d like a last smoke before you kill me.”

The guard glances to Mr. Glozier, who sighs and nods. “Fine. But be quick about it.”

Crowley steps away and fishes out his cigarettes and lighter. He slips one out, takes it between his teeth. He flicks on the lighter, and lights the cigarette. Everyone watches as he lowers his hand with the lighter, and takes a drag with the cigarette in his other hand. He slips off his glasses to give Aziraphale a long, calculating look, before he turns and throws and throws the cigarette at the fabric curtain. It falls down to the fabric draping the floor, and it catches the curtain. Before long, the entire curtain has caught fire.

“You fool!” Mr. Glozier snaps, before running to try and put the fire out. The guard next to Crowley runs over to help, and so does Mr. Harmony. Crowley winks at Aziraphale before relighting his lighter and kneeling down. The moment the lighter touches the ground, flames spring up, beginning a lightning trail around the men.

The guard holding onto Aziraphale drops his jaw, and his grip loosens on him. Aziraphale takes the opportunity to grab the guard by the wrist and twists with a loud  _ CRACK _ . The guard screams and drops the gun. They dive down, but Aziraphale whips out his gun and aims it at the guard, freezing him in his tracks.

“Don’t move.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley calls. The fire has caught to wood of the pews, and up the walls. “Get out of here!”

Aziraphale looks back to him, and that’s his mistake. The guard lunges up with his gun. Aziraphale turns back and ducks before the gunshot goes over his head. He hears Crowley yell, “ _ Shit!” _ before something shatters. Aziraphale doesn’t look back again before he uses the butt of his gun as a club against the guard’s head. Their eyes cross before rolling into the back of their head as they collapse. Once he falls, Aziraphale sighs and relaxes.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley grabs his shoulder. “We really have to leave  _ now! _ His shitty aim hit the incense burner and now the fire is out of control!”

Aziraphale realizes he can feel it now, the heat growing on his back. Before he can speak, Crowley begins to steer him out of the church. “Run!”

Aziraphale nods and takes off. He runs until he’s gasping for the cool air he has run into on the edge of the church’s property. There’s wheezing behind, and he knows Crowley has kept. He turns to see Crowley bent over, hands on his knees. The fashionable hat he had been wearing is gone now to show he cut his hair but it has lost it’s put together appearance. His shades are also missing.

“You saved me.” Aziraphale says faintly, unable to help a smile. “I suppose I should thank you.”

Crowley looks up to him at that. “Oh shut up!” He scoffs, “If anything, you should add arson to my list of charges if I ever get arrested again.”

“Well, the argument could be made that you ‘dropped’ your cigarette…”

“No,” Crowley pants. “I was pouring gasoline before the guard caught me. I spilled some of it, which is how I was caught.”

“…Oh.” Aziraphale droops at that. “Well, thank you anyway.”

Crowley waves him off as he finally catches his breath, softly cursing his nicotine addiction. Aziraphale has stopped listening, stepping past him to stare at the burning church. All those Neo-Nazis were trapped inside by the fire, along with the bibles, the pews, and….

“Oh  _ no! _ ”

Crowley looks up, or at least Aziraphale assumes he does. “What?”

“The books!” He cries, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, they were all first editions!”

“Angel-“

“They’re all going to be burned away!”

“Angel-!”

“And it’s all my fault-!”

“ _ Aziraphale _ !”

Aziraphale stops rambling at his name, and turns to Crowley, only to find himself staring at the bag of his book. He gasps and covers his mouth.

“You think I forgot about them?” Crowley asks as he hands them over. “When they’re apart of your precious collection? Not a chance!”

Aziraphale is still gaping at him. He puts a hand on his shoulder as he passes by.

“We should probably get out of here before the authorities arrive.” Crowley says, and his voice is light. “Lift home?”

“Uh…yes. Yes please.”

Crowley nods. “Follow me.”

Aziraphale begins to follow. A sudden realization hits him smack in the face and makes him stop in his tracks.

This feeling…this crushing weight on his chest that he’s felt for years, every time he’s seen Crowley…it’s not fear or disgust, or even annoyance.

…It’s  _ love. _

* * *

**Present Day**

**Five Hours until the End**

Crowley tries  _ very hard _ not to think about Aziraphale. He tries to focus on this mindless film on the screen. All around him, people watch the movie, some arm-in-arm with their significant other, all unknowing to the end of everything just five hours from now.

Crowley steals a glance to one of the couples, before glaring at the screen as he shoves popcorn in his mouth. It’s not that he didn’t love Aziraphale. Of course he does! He’s loved him for over twenty years now! It’s just…it’s more that  _ Aziraphale _ didn’t seem to know. And if he did know, he certainly didn’t care or feel the same.

And he’s being stupid about it anyway. Having an infatuation with one man for twenty years without telling him is  _ seriously _ messed up. Having an infatuation with anyone for any amount of time was dangerous. It makes him blind to their flaws. Henry taught him that…

_ Damn _ , he’s traveled into dangerous territory. He shakes his head and tries to refocus on the film. Something about a cat talking to a dog…

His phone rings shrilly about that time. Multiple people look back and send him a dirty look. He doesn’t look at either of them as he quickly rises and exits, tossing the popcorn in the trash. Why is his work phone ringing…?

He pulls it out and puts it to his ear. “Yes?”

“ _ Crawly _ …”

“Oh hey, Hastur!” He tries to sound cheerful, but his heart is hammering.

“ _ What the hell have you been playing at _ ?”

“Erm…how do you mean?”

“ _ The boy! He didn’t know of his heritage! He didn’t have a hound! Crawly, you’ve given us the wrong boy!” _

“Oh…have I?”

“ _ I knew there was a reason we couldn’t trust you! Luckily, I’ve done my research. You better not try to run, Anthony Crowley _ .”

His heart leaps into his throat, and without meaning to, his façade falls. “H-how do you know that?”

Hastur cackles. “ _ You’re afraid. Well, you should be…stay where you are!” _

With that, Crowley hangs up before Hastur can see anything more. His blood roars in his ears.

_ Shit, shit shit… _

He runs out of the theatre towards the Bentley. He has to leave!

And he isn’t taking a no from Aziraphale this time.

* * *

Newt wakes with a groan, head still pounding faintly. He slowly blinks, slowly becoming aware that he was not wearing shoes, or his coat for that matter. His vision blurs as he sits up, prompting him to search for his glasses.

“You’re awake.” He jumps at the voice and turns to see a colorful blob, and his brow furrows at it.

“I...Sorry.” He searches for his glasses and finds them on the side table. He quickly slips them on before turning to see the frankly  _ beautiful  _ woman standing at the end of the bed. “Erm...H-hello.”

She hums at that. “You must be the Witchfinder.”

His mouth goes dry. “Witchfinder?”

She pulls out a slip of paper, which he quickly realizes is the identification Shadwell gave him when he was first inducted. “You are...Witchfinder Private Newton Pulsifer.” Newt squirms at that. “Apparently, all magistrates are enjoined to give you as much dry kindling as you need to burn any witches, hags or bedlam you discover.” She seems less than impressed. He can’t handle it, not with her. 

“...I’m not actually a Witchfinder.” He fumbles. “Not a  _ real _ Witchfinder. I mean...there aren’t really any witches. I’m actually a...computer engineer. I just needed something to get me out of the house.”

She hums at that, a small smirk growing on her face. She crosses forward and holds out her hand. He slowly takes it, and she shakes. 

“I’m Anathema Device.” The woman finally says, “And I really am a witch.” 

He gapes and before he can answer, she reaches for something on the desk, before handing it to him. “You might want to read this.” He takes the small notecard. “It’s about you.”

His brow furrows as he hears her move about the room. Slowly, he begins to read out loud. “ _ When robins blue chariot inverted be, three wheels in the sky, a man with bruises be upon your bed, aching his head for willow fine.” _

“That’s you, the car crash and the asprin.” Anathema says, sitting down across from him on the bed with a wooden box.

“It even points out that my car has three wheels…”

She nods, then asks. “Have you ever heard of Agnes Nutter?”

“...No, I haven’t. Who is she?”

“A witch from three hundred years ago, with the gift of prophecy. I’m her descendant. One of your ancestors burned her at the stake...or tried to.”

“...Ancestors?”

“Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer.” She hums as she takes him in. “Your family obviously has a tendency to burn mine so…” She gives a slight shrug. “I took your matches.”

Newt’s jaw drops and his brow furrows. “I’m not going to burn anyone!”

She smirks at that, and opens the wooden box. She runs her fingers across the index cards fondly. “I know. Agnes would have told us if you were. She wrote all these prophecies in a book published in 1655.”

“Did she know I was going to crash my car?” He looks from the cards to her.

“Yes.” She hesitates, then takes back her words. “No. I mean…” She chuckles as her cheeks grow warm, “Yes. I...my family has been trying to figure out her prophecies for three hundred and fifty years now. You could say we’re professional descendants.”

He nods slowly. “And what about the book?”

She bites her cheek at that. “...Gone. But I have all of her prophecies here.” She pats the box again. “I can still solve this.” 

“Solve what, exactly?”

“...The end of the world.”

He raises his eyebrows at that. “You know when the world is supposed to end?” When she nods, he asks, “When?”

“Um…” She looks to the clock. “About four hours and fifteen minutes from now.”

His stomach drops, and he feels sick. “Hold on. You can’t  _ actually _ be saying that the world is going to end today.” 

“The end of the world starts right here in Tadfield, this afternoon. This is what Agnes says.”

“She could be wrong.”

“She hasn’t been wrong yet. Not about one single detail. And we can stop that from happening...I just can’t find him.”

“Him?”

She frowns at him, before bending over and grabbing another card, and handing it to him to read. “The son of the Devil, in London. I’m sure you know who he is.”

“Well, I don’t know  _ who  _ he is...but I know of him.”

“Multiple prophecies say that Lucifer Morningstar is the Devil, and that his son is supposed to bring about the end of the world. I’ve been searching all over but I haven’t found him yet.”

“ _ Where the Hogge’s Back ends, the young beast will take the world, and Adam’s line will end in fire and darkness.”  _ Anathema nods at that, but Newt still stares at it. “Hang on...Hogge’s Back.”  _ That’s the address Sergeant Shadwell gave me. It belongs to… _ “Adam Young.”

She looks up, blinking rapidly. “What?”

“Adam Young.” He repeats. “He lives at number 4 Hogback Lane.” He continues as she snatches the card back. “I was sent to keep an eye on him.”

“How did you…?” She slowly rises, still staring at the card. “ _ Shit… _ Adam...that-that’s crazy. He’s such a sweet kid. He and his friends were the ones that brought you in here.” Newt’s eyes widen at that, and Anathema begins to pace. “No...no! He can’t be the end of the world!”

He opens his mouth to speak, but she quickly runs to the window,and curses when she peeks out. “And he’s long gone. He could be anywhere now!”

* * *

“Adam’s...different.” Brian says as they walk home through the wood.

“Oh, don’t be wet!” Pepper scoffs. 

“Actually,” Wensleydale pipes up, “I think that’s why we like him so much. Sure he’s a little odd, but he’s not boring.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Brian responds.

“He’s Adam.” Pepper points out. “That’s just how he is.”

“Yeah...but something’s changed since we got to Anathema’s house. Did you see how he was acting while we were there?”

The other two nod. “I was scared he wouldn’t let us go back there.” Wensleydale admits and Pepper rolls her eyes. 

“That’s  _ stupid _ .”

“No, I agree with Wensleydale.” Brian says. “I mean what if he hadn’t let us…?” They round the trees near their part of the wood, and freeze to see Adam standing there. He’s watching them, but his gaze also seems...distant. Dog is growing agitated at his feet, beginning to chew on his leash.

He blinks finally, and turns away. “Come on.”

“No.” Adam stops and turns back as Pepper stands tall to meet his gaze. “We need to go home.”

Adam merely stares at her for a moment. Then, he kneels, and unclips Dog’s leash. “Get them.” 

Dog begins to bark, and runs down the hill towards them. Brian’s eyes widen, and he grabs Wensleydale and Pepper’s hands to run. However, Dog makes it around them and stops, hackles raised and teeth bared. The children gasp and begin to scramble back as Dog stalks closer. 

“Dog, stop it!” Pepper screeches at him. 

“Leave us alone!” Brian shouts at Dog. He is undeterred by both of them, and only stops when they trip over the logs at the bottom of the hill. 

They grunt and cry out as they fall on top of each other. After a couple moments of squirming, they manage to get off of each other. Wensleydale tries to move, but can’t. He looks over to find his hand tied to the log, and then looks to the other side to see Adam tie his and Pepper’s hands together, before moving to Brian and Pepper’s other hand. 

“What are you doing?” Brian demands.

“You can’t go home.” Adam says simply. “There’s no point. Not when the world is supposed to end soon.”

The three stop struggling at that. “...What?” Pepper asks weakly.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s all done now.”

“But we don’t actually want to stay here.” Wensleydale protests, tugging on the rope tied to the log. It doesn’t budge.

“You do.” Adam insists. “And you know why?”

None of them answer. 

“Because there’ll be nowhere else to go. What’s the point? What’s going to be left when we grow up? Everywhere we look, there’s all this  _ environment _ going on. Everything’s being killed or used up, and no one takes it seriously. Everyone thinks it’ll magically get better, but it won’t. Why should I not end it now?”

“You’re being weird.” Pepper wrinkles her nose at that. “You can’t end the world.”

“Yes I can.” Adam kneels down and tugs down the collar of his shirt. “See this scar? It’s a tracker. Four new friends of mine are coming soon, and on my command, they will end the world. Then it’ll be our job to start everything again.” He looks down to where Dog is settled at his feet. “Right Dog?”

Dog whines, tail tucking as he smashes his snout into his paws. Adam takes that as a yes, and smiles. “We’ll make everything great again. I promise that.”

* * *

The Bentley squeals around the bend, narrowly avoiding cars. Aziraphale looks up from where he had been walking back from the park to see the Bentley jerk to a stop at the curb. He shakes his head, and tries to keep walking. 

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice calls, and that makes him look back. Crowley runs up to him. “I’m sorry. Whatever it is I did, I apologize. I didn’t mean it.”

Aziraphale blinks at that. He came back after all, and his heart soars. “Oh, well…”

“Good? Good, get in the car.” Crowley grabs his wrist and begins to drag him. 

“What?  _ No! _ ” Aziraphale wrenches his hand out of Crowley’s grip. 

“The Demons have figured out who I am and that it’s my fault. But we can run away together!” Aziraphale takes a step back with wide eyes at that. Crowley is reaching up behind him. “To the mountains in Canada. We’ll never be heard from again, and it’ll just be us!” 

“Crowley, you’re being  _ ridiculous _ .” Crowley’s hand drops at that, expression falling. “Look...if I can just get through to the Commissioner, then all of this nonsense will  _ stop _ , a-and everything will go back to normal. 

“You don’t get it, do you?” Crowley seems horrified as he closes the distance between them, nearly falling to his knees. “She’s not going to help us! She stays locked up in her office, grieving the past while everyone else passes her by!”

“Well, that’s exactly why I’m going to talk to her.” Aziraphale presses. “If she knew what was happening, she would put a stop to it.”

Crowley shakes his head. “That won’t happen! God, you’re so clever! How can you be so  _ stupid _ ?”

Aziraphale’s chest aches at that, but his heartbroken eyes still meet Crowley’s shades. “You may have been hurt by so many people, but there is still hope, Crowley. You are a good person, and I know you won’t leave me.”

Crowley stares at him for a long moment, jaw dropped. Then his expression changes as he wrinkles his nose and scoffs off Aziraphale, storming away. 

“I’m going home, angel!” He calls back as he crosses to the Bentley. He climbs up on the side of the car so he can see Aziraphale over it. “I’m getting my stuff, and I’m leaving. And when I’m on that plane flying away, I won’t even  _ think  _ about you!” He jumps down, slams his car door shut. The Bentley squeals as it speeds out of sight.

“I’ve been there.” Aziraphale blinks, and looks to the man that had just come up to him. He gives Aziraphale a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry, you’re better off without him.”

_ Am I? _ He thinks to himself as the man walks off, and he still finds himself staring at the corner where Crowley had left. Perhaps he should have accepted. Then he could spend the rest of his life with the one he leaves.

He feels tears rising. He closes his eyes for a long moment, before taking a deep breath and opening again. He can’t be foolish. He must press on, for everyone else.

He can’t always give Crowley what he wants...

* * *

**2000**

**Soho, London**

When Lucifer heard about Crowley’s plan to raid Scotland Yard, he gave the Demon a commendation. When he posted a search for workers in Soho, most stayed clear. After all, stealing from the police? That was practically a death wish. 

Crowley won’t admit this to anyone, but he was more than relieved when  _ two  _ people show up. His hair is growing out again, so he ties it back and wears his trademark shades. “Glad to see you could make it.” He greets, leaning back in his chair. 

“You Crawly?” The man, a big buff guy with a dark gaze, asks.

“That I am. What can you do?”

“I’m Spike.” The man introduces himself. “I’m usually the muscles.”

“Usually.” Crowley comments.

“And this is Sally.” Spike gestures to the thin woman with sharp features who gives Crawly a searching, defiant look. “She’s the brains and agility.” 

“I see.” 

“Let’s just get started.” Sally says impatiently as she sits.

“She has a point.” Crowley agrees, and Spike sits as well. “The objective of this mission is to retrieve evidence and to steal weapons from within Scotland Yard.”

“Weapons?” Spike’s brow furrows.

“That going to be a problem?” Crowley raises an eyebrow at that.

“...No.”

“Good.” He leans against the table. “Sally, you will need to be able to sneak in undetected. The way to do that will be from the roof and through the ventilation.”

“How will we do that?” Sally asks.

Crowley presents a floorplan he had crudely drawn up. “You will be let down on a rope. The vent enters here-” He points to a corner. “You can follow the vents to here,” he points at the other corner, “which is where all the confidential information is hidden, along with controls to the building. Once you get there, let all of us in since we don’t have a locksman, and we’ll take care of the rest.”

She nods, and Crowley turns to Spike. “Now Spike. You’re the muscles. You’ll be hauling the ropes.”

“And she’ll be going down on them?”

He begins to answer when he hears the lock turn on a door that he had been  _ certain _ to lock. “Hang on.” He tells them as he begins to rise to meet the intruder.

An older man steps through, wearing a dark brown jacket with various symbols stitched on. He slips a cigarette behind his ear.

“Who are you?” Crowley asks.

“I understand you need a locksman.” The man says with a thick Scottish accent. He ambles around the table, and Sally and Spike watch him from the corners of their eyes. “Mind if I pull up a chair?”

Crowley watches him carefully as he slowly sits. Well, he did pick the lock without anyone hearing him. “Certainly, Mr…?”

“Lance Corporal Shadwell.”

“Certainly, Lance Corporal  _ Shadwell _ .” 

“So the plan is going to change?” Sally asks. Crowley looks to her and nods. 

“Since we have a locksmith, we no longer have to let you down the ropes. Lance Corporal here will pick the lock and let us in. Sally, you will head straight to confidential information. Download as much as you can. Spike, you will come with me to weapons. That will be heavily guarded. And Shadwell-”

_ “Lance Corporal _ Shadwell.”

“...Lance Corporal Shadwell will keep lookout.” Shadwell nods at that, and Crowley pulls out his wallet. “You will all be very well compensated.” He begins to lay hundred pound notes down on the table in small stacks when Shadwell raises his hand. Crowley glances up to him, stopping in his tracks. “Yes?”

“There’s nae  _ witches _ involved in this job, is there?”

Everyone else stares at Shadwell for a long moment, before Crowley promptly says. “No witches.”

“Mm. Pity.” He lowers his hand.

“Any other questions?”

Shadwell doesn’t raise his hand this time. “You are not yourself a witch, warlock, or someone who calls their cat funny names?”

Crowley hears Sally whisper ‘ _ what the fuck’ _ , but he ignores it and says. “Not a witch. No Pets.” He continues laying down money. “Anyone else?”

“How much are we getting paid?” Finally, a sensible question! It’s obvious Sally is definitely the brains here. 

“A hundred now.” He lists. “Another hundred when the job’s done. A hundred more to keep schtum.” 

At that, Sally and Spike both grin. He passes them their shares. “Leave your numbers here so I can call you when the day comes.”

The three nod and write their numbers down on the blank address book Crowley passes around before one by one, they leave the meeting room. Crowley sighs and rises. He steals a look to his long forgotten drink from before the meeting, downs it in one gulp, and walks out.

He’s pulling his cigarettes out and is lighting one as he heads towards his car when someone calls: “Mr. Crawly!” He stops, cigarette between teeth, and turns to see Shadwell is approaching. “May I have a moment of your time?”

“Yes....Lance Corporal Shadwell.” As Shadwell approaches, Crowley lights his cigarette, pockets his lighter, and takes a drag. “Lance Corporal...what are you a ‘lance corporal’ of anyway? You don’t seem the military type.”

Shadwell chuckles. “Well that is  _ exactly _ the matter which I wish to discuss with you. You might remember earlier this evening, I asked a rather pointed question about witchcraft.”

“Yes. Less than five minutes ago.”

Shadwell ignores him. “Well, I am a proud member of an enormous organisation. Vast.” He steals a glance around before leaning in to whisper. “A secret army that battles the forces of witchery.”

“How nice for you.” Crowley takes another drag. 

“The Witchfinder Army. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

Crowley pauses after his smoke, and looks to him with a furrowed brow. Smoke leaves his mouth as he asks: “...What? I thought you said it was a secret.”

Shadwell chuckles. “Well, you never know when a man such as yourself might have need of such an organisation. A man with  _ hundreds  _ of pounds to throw around.” Shadwell gives him a serious look. “If you need us, you know where to call. Think it over.”

Crowley watches Shadwell leave as he takes another smoke. When he exhales, he wrinkles his nose and drops the cigarette to crush underfoot.  _ An army of people who fight witches? Yeah, right. _

Crowley stumbles back to the Bentley and climbs in with a weary sigh. He goes to set his cigarettes down when he sees a cream sleeve. He looks up, and he freezes. 

_ Aziraphale? _

“What are you doing here?”

Aziraphale is wringing his hands yet again, and he steals one hopeful look to Crowley before averting his gaze. “I need a word with you. Now.”

“What?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale sighs. “I work in Soho, Crowley. I hear things. And I  _ hear _ that you’re planning a caper on Scotland Yard. Do you know how dangerous that is? You could get caught, or killed!”

Crowley looks to him. “Don’t come to lecture me. You told me what you think almost five years ago.”

“And I haven’t changed my mind.” Now Aziraphale won’t look away from him. There’s an ache in his eyes that Crowley can explain but barely fathom. He sighs. “But I can’t see you engaging in this suicide mission. I can’t stand it. So…” He pulls a manilla folder out from his coat, and sets it on the console between them. Then, he sets the gun on top of the folder.

Crowley can’t help but gape. His hands shake as he reaches for the gun. 

“Careful.” Aziraphale says softly. “The safety is on, but it’s loaded.”

Crowley nods as he carefully examines it before slipping down next to his seat. He’ll need to store it once he gets back to his flat. He peeks into the folder, flipping through the pages. “Is this everything?” He asks in awe.

Aziraphale swallows deeply but nods. “Everything I have access to, and then some. So you can call off the robbery.”

“...After everything you said.”

Aziraphale nods to that.

Crowley looks up from the file. “...Should I say thank you?”

Aziraphale squirms and looks away, biting the edge of his lip. “Better not.”

“Well...can I drop you anywhere?”

He shakes his head. “Too many eyes.”

“They’re not watching us, angel. I’ll take you wherever you like.”

“They might be. I’ll just walk.” He looks up and sees the subtleties of disappointment in Crowley’s expression, and he forces a small, rueful smile. “Oh, don’t seem so disappointed. Perhaps one day, when this all blows over, we could...I don’t know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz. And not have to worry about being seen.”

“It’ll be okay. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn away this time, so Crowley can see the pain from where it fell and shattered into his precious smile, tainting it. 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” Aziraphale can’t hold gaze long, and quickly slips out. 

He hurries down the sidewalk, heart aching. One hand twists the fabric of his shirt as he walks faster, dimly surprised that Crowley doesn’t chase after him. 

Crowley got what he wanted, after all. But, now Aziraphale has to tell himself no to the future he wants more than anything. As romantic as it might be, it was not their world. He must press it down, shake it off, and make himself move forward.

* * *

Crowley locks the door behind him the minute he steps in his apartment. He runs, actually  _ runs _ to his office, slamming the door behind him. 

Across the room is a sketch of Mona Lisa, one that he had commissioned years ago for an art theft he never went through with. He pushes back the frame, and the painting opens to a steel door with a lock. Carefully, he inputs the code, the back of his neck tingling. 

Finally, it clicks, and he pulls the door open, reaches in, and pulls out the gun. Since that fateful day almost 20 years ago, he had put it in his safe and didn’t touch it, in case this day would come. And indeed, it came. 

He hears his doorbell buzzing and a banging on the door. “Crowley!” Hastur’s voice echoes. “Let us in!”

Crowley grips the gun tight, and crouches on the other side of his desk. His heart is hammering in his chest and he tries not to panic. He’s got to keep a clear mind, aim right…

There’s a loud BANG and Crowley nearly jumps out of his skin. Two pairs of footsteps echo through the apartment. “You’re making this hard on yourself, Crowley!”

“We only want a little word with you!” Ligur calls into the apartment.

He hears them pass his plants, and pause. “Always knew he was a little freak.” He hears Hastur say, as they’re just in front of his office. They start to yell again. “Crowley!!”

He takes a deep breath, and calls: “In here, people!”

They grow silent, and slowly they approach. The door creaks open, and Crowley grips the gun tight before jumping to his feet and firing.

Ligur ducks with a curse as the first bullet hits the wall. Hastur ducks back behind the wall as Crowley fires again.

This time his mark hits true. Ligur is rising when Crowley fires, and his head snaps back against the wall. He crumples, and slams forward, blood splattering on the wall and spilling onto the floor.

Crowley’s hands are shaking and his breath is heavy in his ears. Good  _ god _ ...he actually killed Ligur!

Hastur pushes the door open in the silence, and screams at the sight of Ligur’s body. The screaming snaps Crowley out of his panic, and he’s able to cease his shaking as he calmly says. “Hi.”

Hastur maneuvers around Ligur, and slumps back. “You killed him! You killed Ligur! He didn’t do anything to you!”

“Not yet, he hadn’t.” Crowley raises his gun and slowly rounds the desk. Hastur slowly raises his hands as Crowley nears.

“Don’t do this, Crowley.”

“Did I say you could call me that?” He surprises himself with how stony his voice comes out; as sharp as a flint. “To you, I have always been Crawly. You knowing who I am and tracking me down doesn’t change that.”

He slowly stalks forward, and Hastur backs up. “You won’t shoot me.”

“I shot Ligur. What makes you any different?” 

Hastur doesn’t answer. He’s backed into a corner, and Crowley doesn’t stop until the muzzle is right between Hastur’s eyes. His hand is steady now, gaze tinted red. 

“For years I’ve been the boss’s pet, afraid to step out of line in case it gets me killed, tolerant of the  _ filth _ I’ve surrounded myself with. I went to prison for stealing a car, and now I’m surrounded by murderers and terrorists. Well, I’m not putting up with it anymore!”

“So tell me,” Crowley continues, finger resting on the trigger, “do you feel  _ lucky? _ ”

* * *

Aziraphale is still ringing his hands after his encounter with Crowley. His words echo in his mind, causing him to walk on autopilot back to bookshop.

_ He mentioned he had been made...but how? _

He has to stop when three people block his path. “Hello, Aziraphale.” He looks up to the familiar uniforms as they back him down the alleyway, until his back hits the wall. 

“M-Michael.” Aziraphale greets the speaker first before nodding to the other two. “Uriel. Sandalphon.”

“We’ve just learned some disturbing news about you.” Michael continues. “You’ve...gone a bit rogue, haven’t you? Consorting with the enemy?”

Aziraphale feels his heart clench, but he manages a nervous chuckle. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Don’t think your boyfriend in the dark glasses will give you any protection from the Demons.” Uriel deadpans, and Aziraphale’s stomach drops. “He’s in trouble, too

“Aziraphale.” He looks back to Michael at his name, to her stern look. “It’s time to take action, and choose a side.”

“B-but I have been. I’ve been keeping my ear near the ground, working undercover. Like I was ordered to. And, um,” he folds his hands together. “I was thinking about this actually-“

“You think  _ too  _ much.” Uriel interrupts.

Sandalphon delivers a punch. It knocks the wind out of Aziraphale with a gasp, and it folds over himself. Uriel grabs him by the collar and shoves him against the wall. He stares at her with wide eyes, beginning to breathe hard. 

“Perhaps it’s time for you to get out of the field.” Michael says. “Send in your paperwork to transfer within the next hour. If not, I’m afraid you’ll face termination.”

“You...you mustn’t!” Aziraphale protests. “Why would you do this?”

None of them answer, but their gazes remain unbroken. 

“We’re the good guys. I-I have to warn you that I’m going to take this entire interaction up with-with...her.”

Uriel curls her lip. “You really think she’ll take your call?” She leans in. “You’re  _ ridiculous. _ ”

“Time to go.” Micheal calls. After a pause, Uriel drops Aziraphale and steps away. 

“Remember,” She says, “Send your transfer work, or you’ll be fired. And if you try to call the Commissioner...we’ll know.” 

And like that, the three leave the alleyway, and disappear back into the throng of people. Aziraphale squats on the ground for a long moment, trying to collect himself. Once again, he forces himself to stand, rebuild his facade, and continue on. He  _ has  _ to call the Commissioner, no matter what they say.

* * *

“Seems to me it’d serve everyone right if all the nuclear bombs went off and we started again.” The wind is picking up on Hogback Wood, but Adam doesn’t make from his makeshift throne. The Them have no choice but to not move as Adam continues. “Then we could do things right.”

“There’s all these bombs going off.” Pepper shouts over the wind. “People could be killed!”

Adam shrugs. “So? They deserve it.” 

“Speaking as a mother of unborn generations, I’m against it!”

“You’d all be fine, I’d see to that.” He leans forward, grin growing. “It’d be wicked, eh? Having the whole world to ourselves. We could have amazing games! War, with real armies!”

“Adam, please let us go home!” Brian begs. “I want my mummy and daddy!”

“ _ No _ !” Adam stands suddenly. “This is your new home!”

Thunder booms and lightning strikes in the forest. The Them scream. 

“Adam stop!”

“What are you doing?!” Pepper screams. 

Dog barks at the sky, backing into Adam. The boy is still grinning rather frighteningly. “I’ve got friends coming soon. You’ll like them. They’re a lot like you. They’re going to help me make everything stop.”

Dog continues barking, now trying to break off his leash. Wensleydale tugs on the rope. “Adam! I can’t move! I don’t like this game!” 

Adam ignores him. “Just you wait. It’s going to be  _ wicked _ .”

* * *

“So we find this Adam?” Newt asks as he slips back on his sweater. “Then what do we do?”

“Stop him!” Anathema glares at him and paces past. “He’s bringing the end of the world.”

“So...we ask him nicely to stop?”

“I don’t know.” Anathema sighs as she slips on her coat. “Agnes doesn’t say. She goes on stuff about…” She steals a glance to him as he pulls down his sweater. She returns to her buttons, “You and me.”

“Like what?”

“Oh,” She snorts and shakes her head. “Stupid stuff. You don’t want to know.”

She sighs once he’s ready. “Hogback Lane isn’t far from here. Let’s go get him.”

Newt looks up as raindrops begin to hit the roof, and thunder booms. 

Anathema pauses. “I’ll grab the umbrella.”

Moments later, when the two are prepared to leave, Newt opens the door only to have it wrenched from his hands. The umbrella is pulled away from Anathema and into the wind as the storm picks up. Signs are blowing over and traveling across streets and lawns. Some of the trees are dangerously bending. 

“Back inside!” Anathema calls. Newt quickly grabs the door and slams it closed before following Anathema back down the hallway to the bedroom. She slams the door this time, and they lean against it with a weary sigh. As soon as they do, though, the windows wrench open, blasting cold storm air into the room. It picks up the prophecy cards and sends them spinning. 

“Under the bed!” Newt says. Anathema runs to the bed and crawls under, Newt right behind her. They press to the floor as the wind howls above them. 

“This is insane!” Newt cries. “This is the worst storm I’ve ever seen! Does Agnes say what we have to do next?”

Anathema notices the prophecy card, and reaches out for it. She quickly passes it to Newt.

“ ‘Let the wheel of fate turn. Let hearts enjoin. There are other fires than mine. When the whirlwind wirls, reach out to  _ one another _ .’”

In the midst of the storm, his heart catches in his throat. He looks over to see Anathema is bracing against the ground, struggling to breathe as well. 

“The world’s about to end and I’ve...I’ve never...never robbed a bank!” He shouts somewhat hysterically. “I’ve never got a parking ticket! I’ve never eaten Thai food! I’ve never been abroad, and I’ve never…” He can’t breathe around the lump in his throat.

She’s watching him. “Kissed a girl?”

He shakes his head, before looking her dead in the eyes despite everything in him screaming for him to squeeze them shut. “No, not even once.”

Lightning lights up the room, and they crawl closer together, clinging to each other’s shoulder. He gets so lost in her eyes, praying for safety in her eyes, that she’s the one to make the first move. She glances down to his lips, before closing her eyes and leaning in. His brain short circuits long enough for him to meet her lips. They’re warm and electric, like lightning, shutting him down completely as he kisses her and is kissed in return. In the midst of the storm, among the pouring rain, a flame lights between them. 

* * *

Shadwell watches the much tamer rain from his flat window in London, listening to the thunder distantly boom. Distantly, he wonders if Witchfinder Private Pulsifer had made it to Tadfield before the storm. 

Something  _ twangs  _ elsewhere in the room. As if waking from a dream, Shadwell slowly turns to see a glint on his map of England. Brow furrowing, he approaches the map to find a Witchfinder’s pin has been stuck to Tadfield on the map. Then, it clatters to the floor. He’s frowning now as he kneels down, retrieves the pin, and sticks it back on Tadfield, specifically at the hole on Jasmine Cottage. As soon as he lets go of the pin, it begins to smoke faintly from the hole. 

“Huh.” He wonders aloud. “What is Newt doing there?”

The door opens but he doesn’t register it until Madame Tracy calls: “I made you a nice cup of tea.”

_ Could he...could he have actually found a witch? _ He covers his dropped jaw at that. 

She closes the door and steps down into the flat. “I made it just the way you like it. Nine sugars and condensed milk.” The smoke slowly picks up.

“Awa’ wi’ ye, ye murrain plashed berrizene.” He says without much venom in his voice. She doesn’t miss it.

“Oh, Mr. Shadwell. You say the nicest things.” She stands next to him, and looks to the map. “Oh, that’s odd.”

She looks over at Shadwell’s faint sob to see him turning red in the face. “I’ve sent him into the jaws of doom.” 

“Who?”

“Private Pulsifer.” His breathing is erratic. “Aye, he’s just a lad. I let him go alone. I should have gone with him.” He adds the last part softly.

“Well, he could be having a nice day out.” As she says this, though, the pin shakes and the smoke grows in volume. 

“I’m a bad man.” Shadwell moans. “And a worse Witchfinder Sergeant. I cannot believe I let him go alone.” He takes the cup of tea from her and takes a sip. Maybe it will calm his nerves. 

Perhaps not, but it did give him an idea.

“I should go to him.” He goes to collect his coat.

Tracy pauses, before following after him. “There’s a train to Tadfield.”

He shakes his head as he sets down the tea. “I can’t get there on my bus pass. There’s not funds for a train ticket.” 

Tracy frowns a tight line as she sets down the saucer. Then, she begins pulling money out of her blouse, and Shadwell steps back. 

“Oh, I’ll not travel on the funds of harlotry and ghost-raising!”

She ignores him, stacking the money. “You’ll need an extra five pounds for a sandwich and a coffee.” 

Before he can protest, the map catches flame behind them. Tracy turns when Shadwell’s jaw drops. Quickly, she grabs the cup of tea and runs across, throwing it out on the map. It douses the flame just as quickly as it had begun. She sighs, setting down the mug and folding the notes back up. “Well, if you won’t take it from me, what about one of those nice men that called?”

“Mr. Crawly won’t give me an advance.” He steals a glance around, before saying. “Don’t tell anyone, but he’s a Demon.”

“Oh.” She says softly. 

He thinks for a moment. “But the southern pansy in the bookshop might be a soft touch. Aye, he’s got money.” He shakes his head, and begins to pull on his coat. “Even now, young Pulsifer could be suffering unimaginable tortures at the hands of the Daughters of Night.” He pauses, horrified gaze staring off into the distance. “I can’t imagine what he’s going through, now. They could be doing all sorts of manner to him, right this moment.”

Tracy sighs, and helps him put on his hat. “Well, I don’t suppose it’ll be the end of the world, even if they are, Mr. S.” 

He shoots her a doubtful look before zipping up his coat, and taking off. 


	13. Play the Game

**Chapter 13- Play the Game**

_ “Open up your mind and let me step inside _

_ Rest your weary head and let your heart decide _

_ It’s so easy when you know the rules _

_ It’s so easy…” _

**Meanwhile…**

Aziraphale can’t get into the bookshop fast enough. He slams the door behind him and leans against it, breathing hard. He runs his hands through his hair, trying to steady himself. Then, he turns and locks the door before flipping the sign to ‘CLOSED’. He steals a glance around at the stormy sky before drawing the shades.

The bookshop is dark now that the shades are drawn. He hurries to the desk and flips on the light, before pulling out his cell phone. Crowley had gotten him the fangled thing to try and be better at communicating. He hopes he remembers how to make the conference call correctly…

He clicks on the Skype app, and types in his commissioner's work number. It dials and rings as he sets his phone up under the light of the desk. He sits down in front of it, folding his hands as he waits.

Finally, the line picks up, but the screen is still dark.

“Hello?” He asks softly. “Am I talking to the Commissioner?”

There’s a small rustling sound, and the screen changes to the face of an old man. “ _ You are speaking to Metatron, the voice of the Commissioner _ .”

His hopeful smile fades at that. Within the last few years, the Commissioner has stopped appearing publicly, and Metatron, her secretary, has started stepping in as ‘her voice’. He’s charismatic, and oh so likeable.

Aziraphale can’t stand him.

At that point, there’s a knock on the door. He scoots back, and calls: “We’re closed!” After a moment, he returns to Metatron. “Well…yes. But you’re the voice of the Commissioner in the same way as...erm, a presidential spokesman is the voice of the President. I-I actually need to speak directly to her.”

Metatron looks at him, unamused. “ _ What is said to me is said to the Commissioner. _ ”

He hesitates, expression falling at that. 

_ “Well, Aziraphale?” _

“Well, I’d like to complain about the conduct of a few officers.” He shakes his head. “B-but the important thing is the Devil’s son. I know who he is. I know where he is.”

“ _ Good work, well done _ .” Metatron deadpans. 

“So there’s doesn’t need to be anymore of this nonsense of…” He makes a face, “Fighting the Demons, o-or destroying London, or anything. There needn’t be a war, we can save everyone!”

“ _ The point isn’t to avoid a war.” _ Metatron says calmly, much too calmly when talking about a war. “ _ The point is to win it. _ ”

Aziraphale’s hopeful smile fades. “...Ah.” He says softly. It wasn’t just a goal of his go-to superiors. It was all the way to the top. No one wanted to avoid the death and destruction. Crowley was right all along. “I see. Erm...what sort of initiating event will precipitate the war?”

Metatron looks to him. “ _ Don’t you know? We thought a multi-nation nuclear exchange would be the best way to start. _ ”

Aziraphale tries not to show his shock. “But that wouldn’t destroy just London.”

“ _ Perhaps. But the Demons have men within the government, and stationed all over the world at this point. And to win, we have to do whatever it takes to rid of them completely.” _

“...Right.”

“ _ The battle commences, Aziraphale. _ ” Metatron continues. “ _ All officers are being called back to headquarters to take part. Join us. _ ”

“In a jiffy.” Aziraphale says, looking around as if he has more to do. “Two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Just a couple things left to tie up.”

“ _ We will leave some supplies here for you when you finish. Do not dawdle.”  _ And with that, the voice call ends. 

“Right.” He says softly, and rises from his seat. He needs to call Crowley. 

* * *

The gun clicks, and both Hastur and Crowley. Crowley tries again, only to be met with the same result. He curses under his breath. He’s already out of bullets!

Hastur catches on, and a grin begins to slide on his face. “Yeah. Do you?” Before he can respond, Hastur reaches up and twists his hand. Crowley gasps and drops the empty gun. 

“Time to go,  _ Crowley _ .” Hastur spits in Crowley’s face, as Crowley struggles in his grip. “You’re coming with me straight to the boss!”

Suddenly, Crowley’s phone begins a shrill ring. Both freeze in their struggle, and look to the old phone. The call passes by without being retrieved, and voicemail picks it up. ‘ _ Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style. _ ’

“Let me answer that.” Crowley says suddenly as he hears Aziraphale grow indignant at being sent to voicemail. 

“Why should I?”

“There’s something you should know.” He says quickly. “And I’ll tell you,  _ if _ you let me take this call.”

Hastur frowns and lets go of his wrist. “ _ Fine _ .”

* * *

Aziraphale hears a clicking noise, and glances to the door. Did the others already know he tried to contact the Commissioner? Were they already coming for him? 

He isn’t sure, but as the line picks up, he begins: “Hello? I know where the boy is-”

“ _ Hey this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style.” _

Aziraphale huffs. Of course, sent to voicemail at the most  _ vital  _ time. What could that man be doing? “Of course I know it’s you! That’s why I called you. Listen, I know where the boy is. He’s in a little village called-”

The line suddenly picks up, and before Aziraphale can say another word, the real Crowley cuts in. “ _ Yeah, it’s not a good time. Got an old friend here. _ ”

“But-” As soon as the line dies, the door slams open and shut. A door that was very much  _ locked _ . In his fright, he drops the receiver to the phone. It clatters to the floor.

“You  _ foul fiend _ !” A familiar accuses from the front, and he races to it. He whips around the corner of the bookshop to see Shadwell standing there, sopping wet, brandishing a finger at him. “In league with the forces of darkness!”

“Sergeant Shadwell?” He doesn’t move. “I thought your pay was already on the way.”

“I don’t want your pay no more, you  _ monster! _ Seducing women to do your evil will!”

“Oh, I’m afraid you have the wrong shop.” Aziraphale says most definitely. “This is for books.”

“Those that contain  _ dark magic _ ! And you converse with the Devil!”

“I assure you I do not associate myself with him.”

“I heard him!”

“Do you mean my skype call?” Aziraphale folds his hands, and steps forward. “I was calling about a matter that is quite frankly not your business. Now, I must ask you to leave, before I call the police.” The threat is empty, for he’s sure that he would be arrested on sight, or at least belittled for his actions. But Shadwell doesn’t know that. 

“You are possessed by a demon!” Shadwell stands his ground. “And I will exorcise you with bell, book, and candle!” He begins digging in his coat pockets. 

“Sergeant Shadwell,  _ what  _ are you talking about-?”

Shadwell’s search for whatever it is shows up fruitless, until he notices the bell on the counter. He points to it. “Bell.” He crosses, and hits it once with a  _ ding _ .

“I’m honestly not a demon!” Aziraphale protests as Shadwell crosses to his desk. “I-I don’t know what you think you saw, but it isn’t what you-”

“Book!” Shadwell calls, holding up  _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter _ , Aziraphale realizes with a start. 

“Please put that down! It’s a first edition-”

Shadwell tosses it to the side, and notices Crowley’s cigarettes, moved when Aziraphale had contemplated a smoke for a stressful time. He pulls one out alongside his lighter. He lights it, and holds it out. “This’ll count as a candle.”

“Look,” Aziraphale tries to call over his chanting, “I’m not a demon! I’m a good guy! But I must ask you to leave for your own safety. You have no idea what you’re getting into!”

He begins praying louder and steps closer with the cigarette, almost burning Aziraphale’s cheek. This forces him back, and Aziraphale’s temper through the roof. 

“Will you stop threatening me and  _ leave, you STUPID MAN?!” _ He screams at him. Something glints out of the corner of his eye, and he looks up. Someone is on the roof, visible through his skylight. They slowly remove the glass and lean in. A silenced gun shines in the roof lights, and instantly he knows. 

“-Evil, returning no more!” Shadwell screeches, pointing at Aziraphale as the sniper aims directly at Aziraphale, who is rooted to the spot.

_ That’s what they meant by ‘termination’ _ .... _ Oh… _

_ “ _ Oh  _ fuck! _ ” 

The sniper fires silently, and Aziraphale crumples where he stood. Shadwell scrambles back in fright, before looking to Aziraphale’s body, now still. 

“Oh hell…” Shadwell can barely breathe for the second time that day. His poor heart won’t be able to take much more. “I  _ killed  _ him.”

He stumbles back in horror, dropping the cigarette in his hand. He doesn’t seem to realize it, for he immediately takes off. The cigarette, meanwhile has landed on the carpet. The end of the cigarette catches the fabric, and starts a small fire. It begins to spread across the carpet, before catching on the books and manuscripts, and starting a blaze around the body of Aziraphale Pritchard.

* * *

“Let me out!” Hastur bangs against the broom closet door. “Damn you, Crowley! Let me out of here!” 

Crowley locks the knob, and takes a moment to cackle at the utter gullibility of Hastur. He really believed that the rest of the Dark Council was waiting for him in a  _ broom closet _ . The lack of common thinking skills among the Demons is  _ unbelievable _ !

He doesn’t think any more about it as he takes off down the hall. He’s got to get to Aziraphale, and find that boy!


	14. Flash's Theme

**Chapter 14- Flash’s Theme**

_ “Just a man with a man’s courage _

_ You know he’s nothing but a man  _

_ And he can never fail _

_ No one but the pure at heart  _

_ May find the Golden Frail _

_ Oh-oh _

_ Oh-oh.”  _

**Minutes later**

Crowley speeds faster than he’s ever sped through London before. Aziraphale found the boy, just in the nick of time. He’ll pick Aziraphale up, and have him give directions to get to the boy as soon as possible. 

He should probably let him know that. 

He fishes out his personal phone, and hits one of the only contacts on his phone, and puts it on speaker. It rings for a long moment, before going straight to automated voicemail. He frowns at that, and his the other number in his phone; the one to Aziraphale’s bookshop. He swerves around a car as the line only rings once. “ _ We’re sorry, but this number is currently unavailable. Please hang up and try your call again _ .”

The hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck stand up on end at that. Aziraphale  _ never  _ missed a call directly to the bookshop. 

He rounds the corner, and screeches to a stop when he sees the fire engines. 

“Oh shit.” He mutters, before climbing out. He runs past the fire engines, and shoves his way past the men.  _ Aziraphale! _

“Oi!” One of the firefighters calls. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

Crowley spins towards him on the stairs. “Do I  _ look like  _ I own a bookshop?”

_ Aziraphale, Aziraphale, angel, angel!  _

He doesn’t wait for an answer, pushing the door open with his bare hands. He ignores the heat, and watches as the door give way under his force. He steps in before running into the flames. 

“Aziraphale!” He screams as he runs down the stairs. Heat is hitting him on all sides, and his hands shake. His heart is practically breaking his ribs, as he runs further into the shop. “Aziraphale!”

No response. 

“Aziraphale, where the heaven are you,  _ you idiot?”  _ He searches the floor, the burning stairs, and presses his hearing to search for cries of help. Nothing, and his heart is beating faster than he thought possible. 

_ WHERE IS HE? _

“I can’t find you!” He screams. Smoke gets into his lungs, and he hacks and wheezes, lungs already weakened by years of smoking. But he can’t leave. No, not without his angel!

“Aziraphale!” His voice breaks, but he presses it on. He screams. “For  _ FUCK’S SAKE,  _ where are you?” 

The glass shatters to his right. He turns to it, expecting to see Aziraphale breaking through the window, or trying to escape as weakly as he can. Instead, the spray of water knocks him off his feet, and he goes skidding back across the floor, until his head hits the wall. His glasses falls off as he groans. Like a second blow to the head, it hits him.

“You’ve gone…” 

There’s not even a body to be found. Aziraphale would have contacted him by now. The implication rips stitched together heart to shreds, and opens a cavity where his heart should be. 

“Somebody  _ killed _ my best friend!”  _ The love of my life, the one person I could trust, the one I never told, oh god oh god-! _

__ _ “BASTARDS!” _ He screams. “All of you! Fuck all of you!”

He breaks off into a coughing fit, and looks to the side. There, in the corner, one book has been spared from the destruction. He reaches out, and grabs the ash-stained copy of  _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter _ . He doesn’t remember this in Aziraphale’s collection, but it’s the last thing he has of him. He holds it close as he descends into another coughing fit that makes him see spots. Someone grabs him by the armpits and begins to drag him out. 

“No!” He tries to squirm away, but can’t. So, he clings to the book to dear life as the firefighters drag him out of Aziraphale’s bookshop.

* * *

“It’s a bad world.” Adam says softly, able to be heard despite the roar of the wind. He remains nearly frozen in his seat, staring up at the sky. “But we can fix it.”

The Them remain silent, long paralyzed by fear. 

“And it doesn’t matter that you three aren’t my friends anymore.” He finally looks to them, and they shrink away. “I’ve got better friends than you’ll ever be. They’ll be here soon. And then, we can make everything better.”

The thunder booms, and the Them look up in fear as Adam closes his eyes and revels in it.

* * *

The same thunder booms back in London, much softer than in Tadfield. The firefighter drags a now silent Crowley to his feet, before helping him down the stairs. 

“Sir, what you did was dangerous! Nothing is worth that kind of danger!”

“You’re right.” He says hoarsely. He clears his throat. “But some people are.”

The firefighter looks at him for a long moment, before slowly shaking his head. “There was no one in there, sir. If there was, they would have been burned away long ago.”

The cavern in Crowley’s chest grows wider, but Crowley finds he feels...nothing. “Right.” He says softly. 

He walks away, despite the fireman yelling for him to come back. He stumbles down the stairs, passes the firemen running to the burning building to douse the flames. He remains silent as he climbs in his car, shifts into drive, and slowly leaves. He’s just made it around the corner when he hears an explosion, and the cavity grows. 

Someone  _ destroyed _ every essence of Aziraphale. That was no accident. They had to have known, too, whoever killed him. 

He may not survive to the next sunrise. And for the first time since he couldn’t find Aziraphale’s body, he feels something.  _ Fear. _

He’s not strong like Aziraphale. He can’t force his feelings back, and press on. But he can try. At least until he makes it to the nearest bar and is able to let it all out before he and the rest of London, if not  _ the world _ , are destroyed.

* * *

Shadwell stumbles the familiar path back to the flat, all his energy spent fleeing the bookshop after he killed Mr. Fell. 

Oh,  _ God.  _ He  _ killed  _ Mr. Fell! He didn’t mean to.

He can’t breathe through his nose, he finds. He must have been crying at some point, so he pants through his mouth as he cradles his hand to his heart. When he reaches his door, he uses his last bit of strength to raise his elbow to the buzzer. Once he buzzes the door, he slumps back against the wall next to the door and stares up at the fading storm, breathing as if he had run a marathon. 

The door opens and for a moment, it’s silent. 

“Mr. Shadwell?” Shadwell hobbles over to Madame Tracy at his name. She sees his expression, and folds her hands together. “Oh, what on earth happened? I thought you were going to sweet Newt.”

He’s still panting as he speaks, holding out the finger he had cradled to his chest. “What would say if I told you that this hand has just exorcised a demon, and possibly killed a man?”

She stares at him with wide eyes for a moment, before her expression settles. “I’d say somebody needs to come inside for a  _ nice  _ cup of tea.” She gently takes his arms and leads him inside, before closing the door behind them. 

“B-but young Newt, he’s still out there!” Tracy hums at that, leading Shadwell up the stairs. “In thrall to heathen ways and lubricious occult wiles.” He begins to stumble to his room, but Tracy tuts and leads him towards her flat. He stiffens. He’s never really been inside her flat, having always avoided the den of harlotry. “There could be women there!”

“Oh, well…” She leads him into her flat, before letting go of him. He stumbles down the steps as she closes the door. She hurries to him. “Now, you can’t be in here, because Ms. Omorod and such will be arriving any minute.” She leads him towards her bedroom. “Why don’t you come in here and have a nice lie down?”

Her room is...really pink, Shadwell dimly notes. He makes it to the bed (piled with stuffed animals), and turns as she takes off his hat. “You’re of no use to young Newt in this state.”

“Aye.” He agrees wearily. “I think I’ll have a bit of a lie down.” She nods, and he sinks down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. She shakes out his hat and gives one last parting look to him as she closes the door.

He looks down to his hand, before pointing it into the shape that had killed Mr. Fell. “Nobody’s ever done what I done.” He realizes. He shakes his head. “Not Hopkins, not Siftings,” He chuckles faintly, “Not even Darlymple.” He sighs as he leans back onto the bed. “I’m the ultimate weapon, the backbone of this army.” 

His head hits a stuffed toy beneath him, and it squeaks softly. He closes his eyes, and drifts away...

* * *

Aziraphale’s feet drag as he pants. He pulls the thin, itchy grey jacket tighter around him, praying that the hood stays on. The bullet had hit his arm and grazed his side. While he had passed out, he came to moments later, and was able to limp his way out the back door. 

Somewhere along the way, he had traded his bloodstained, but much warmer coat with a homeless man, along with his shoes. The jacket is slightly too small, and the shoes slightly too big, but at least no one will easily recognize him now. God knows how his co-workers-  _ former  _ co-workers would act if they found him alive. 

How could he have been  _ so blind _ ? So  _ stupid _ ? They’ve been like this all along! Crowley saw it, and he just  _ excused it _ ! He should have known he can’t trust them. 

He needs to find Crowley. He needs to find him, or call him, or something! He may be on a plane heading to another continent, but he can’t trust anyone else. He  _ needs _ Crowley.

But where did he go? And how can he find him again? 

He sighs as he shuffles past a bar. He happens to glance in, contemplating risking being seen for a quick drink to clear his thoughts. A flash of red catches his attention, and he stops. Someone bumps into him and curses him as a homeless man, but he ignores them, eyes zoning in on the red hair. His hand splays out against the glass window. 

_ Crowley _ .

* * *

“My friends are on their way!” Adam says yet again, now grinning as the wind riots around them. “There’ll be a world just for us. We’ll get rid of everything stupid and start over! Won’t that be awesome?”

The Them refuse to answer, either looking down or slumping while making direct contact.

“Say something!” Adam snaps. “Anything!”

Wensleydale is shaking, trying to hide his face. Brian has his head down, shoulders shaking as he bites his lip. Pepper looks Adam dead in the eye, letting him see her tears plain and clear. 

“Stop it! Stop crying! We’re having fun!”

Pepper shakes her head mutely.

“Stop crying! Or I’ll...I’ll…” He fumbles for a threat. Their tears fall faster. “Stop CRYING!”

Dog whimpers, cowering. Wensleydale curls in on himself. Brian holds himself tighter, and Pepper flinches, trying to shield her face. She begins to openly sob, hands shaking. Adam’s eyes widen at that. 

They’re not just sad. They’re  _ scared _ . He’s  _ scaring  _ them, he realizes with a new drowning horror. 

* * *

The storm has calmed enough for them to move back to the bed. Now, Newt is sprawled out, covers protecting his decency as he stares up at the ceiling with a dropped jaw. Anathema is already up, putting her clothes back on. 

“That was…” He looks over to her as she slips on her top. “That...was…” He looks down to the pillow. “You know I’ve never actually...erm, this was my first time.”

She looks up at that as she slips on her lace sleeves. “Really?” When he nods, she shrugs. “I had no idea.” 

“Well,” He sighs, sitting up, “seeing as the world’s ending...can we do it again?”

“We don’t have time.” She answers, looking to him. Without her glasses, her eyes are so  _ clear _ , he realizes. “Plus, Agnes said we only do it once.”

“Oh.” He says softly. She bends down and picks up a notecard off the floor. She examines it, before handing it to him.

“Here.”

He takes it, and begins to read. “‘ _ You go, boy. May fortune be with you. Anathema, my descendant, I trust he will be fine of feature and…’ _ ” He breaks off, cheeks turning red. “Oh good Lord.”

“Get dressed!” She hisses, throwing a sock at him. “I need help gathering all these prophecies again.”

He grabs the sock and begins to unfold it. He watches her lace up her boots. “So we find this Adam...and then what?” 

She hums, before standing. “I’m not sure. Agnes doesn’t tell us to. Because if there’s a card with instructions,” She turns to him, “I don’t know which one it is.”

He tries not to scoff. “What do you mean ‘Agnes doesn’t tell us to’? Don’t you ever just...do things for yourself? See how they turn out?”

She sighs and stands from where she had been gathering prophecies. “No, not important things. And we maybe have an hour or so to go until there’s nothing  _ anybody _ can do. I’m not going to waste a second of it so...” She waves him out of the bed, “Come on.”

He doesn’t move. “You can’t let a 400-year old witch make decisions for you. You can’t learn to think for yourself that way.”

She glares at him, and huffs indignantly. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out what Agnes wanted me to do. And she’s never failed me….Sometimes, I fail her.” 

Newt stares at her. She looks away, and begins gathering cards again in silence.

* * *

“Same again!” Crowley calls. The bartender throws him a look at the second empty bottle, but hands him a third. He nods distantly, before pouring himself another drink.

“Why do they all have to end like this?” Crowley mutters to himself. “First, Henry picks me up in a nice car, tries to dazzle me, and then frames me for aggravated robbery. He gets off scot-free, off doing who knows what now, while I get a criminal record and get  _ stuck _ in this stupid job!” He’s beginning to shout and slur. “T-then angellll...he was so perfect. He didn’t need no fancy car or to impress me. He already had me. Did you know that?” He asks the bartender, who ignores him. “He’s got my heart. B-but…” His chin wobbles, “But now I’ve lost him too…” He downs his glass. Then, he decides to forget the glass and starts on the bottle.

The door swings open and shut. Footsteps amble across the tile floor, but Crowley is too absorbed in his drink to care. It’s not until the figure sits down across from him does he realize he’s no longer alone. He sets down the bottle and sneers.

“Whaddya want?” He glares behind his replaced shades (always keep a couple extra pairs in the car, that’s the rule). “Come to kick me while I’m down? Jus’ do it already.” He mumbles the last bit, taking another swig from the bottle. The man says nothing, but simply pulls off their grey hood to show stained white curls. He looks up to meet his gaze, and Crowley spits his drink.

“... _ Aziraphale?” _ His brow furrows and he leans in, letting his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. “Is tha’ really you?”

“Shh…” Aziraphale puts a finger to his lips, then nods. “It’s me. I’m afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things.” He looks him over. “You didn’t go to Canada.”

He shrugs, trying to feign nonchalance. “Nah, I changed my mind.” As he thinks about it, the nonchalance falls apart, and his lip trembles. “I lost my best friend.”

Aziraphale’s blue eyes turn sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He says softly, before clearing his throat. “Listen, back in my bookshop, there’s a book I need you to get.”

“Oh…” Crowley leans into his hand, voice still wet. “Oh, I’m sorry, angel. It burned down.”

Aziraphale looks down, but when he looks back up, Crowley can’t meet his gaze. “All of it?” How did he miss a  _ fire _ ?

“Y-yeah.” He says softly. “Erm, what was the book?”

Aziraphale looks off to the side, leaning into his hand to blink back tears. “It was the one the girl left behind. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of-”

“ _ Agnes Nutter! _ ” Crowley shouts suddenly, making Aziraphale jump. He knew that title sounded familiar. He pulls it out. “Yes! I have it! See?” 

Aziraphale takes it from him, and opens it between them. “I made notes. It’s all here. The boy’s name, address…” Crowley takes it all in with wide eyes as Aziraphale continues with a small smile. “Everything. I worked it all out.” 

“Aziraphale…” When Crowley looks up, he’s grinning. “You’re a genius! Let’s go!”

He shoots up, but Aziraphale pulls him back down before he falls. “Hold on. You’re drunk. You need to sober up before you get anywhere  _ near  _ that car of yours. I’m not losing you now.”

Crowley’s head spins between the alcohol and Aziraphale’s words. “You do?”

“Of course I do. Now, we’ll have to split up. That’ll be safest, since our sides know about our arrangement. I’ll meet you there.”

“But…” He happens to look down, and sees red staining the grey sleeve of his jacket. “Aziraphale,  _ you’re bleeding _ .”

Aziraphale instinctively covers it with his hand. “I know. I’m going to get that taken care of. But you need to make it Tadfield, to the air base. That’s where it’s all going to happen, and soon, so we need to get a wiggle on.”

Crowley looks up at that. “What?”

Aziraphale is already heading towards the door. “Tadfield!” He calls back, pulling back up his hood. “Air base!”

“I heard that,” he shouts back, “it was the ‘wiggle on’!”

But Aziraphale is already gone. Crowley sighs, orders water, and begins to study the book.

* * *

The storm was beginning to pick up in London when Madame Tracy opens the door to her clients. “Enter all seekers of wisdom, only if you are prepared to part the veil, and receive wisdom from those who have gone before.” 

A woman enters first, followed by a man who nods in greeting, and then comes her usual: Ms. Omorod. She catches her breath in the hallway as Tracy closes the door. “We are here to receive your wisdom, Madame Tracy.” 

Tracy nods, and leads them upstairs. 

Lightning flashes as she sits them all down in their seats, and she jumps. She happens to glance over and see that the door is still ajar. Normally, she would frown and close the door. But Mr. Shadwell is fast asleep in her room, so it can be allowed, just this once.

“Oh!” She sighs as she takes her seat with her Oscar winning smile. “Very nice weather for a seance.”

“Did you have them do the weather special with your psychicness?” The new woman asks, standing in front of her seat.

Madame Tracy shakes her head. “No, dear. Just a mighty coincidence.”

Ms. Omorod pushes the woman out of the way, and sits down in her seat. The woman frowns, and sits in the seat next to her. Ms. Omorod looks to her in expectation. “They’re waiting for us. Our Ron and the spirits are waiting for us!”

Tracy chuckles. “And we are looking forward to hearing what they are going to say to us,’ she looks around to each of them, “after we’ve all made our donations.”

All three of them eagerly shove their money to her, and she gathers it to one side. She lights the candles and blows out the match before holding out her hands. Ms. Omorod takes hers immediately, and the other hesitantly follows. She closes her eyes, sinking into her act. 

“Oohh.” She begins to make odd noises, occasionally sticking out her tongue.

“She’s going under.” She hears Ms. Omorod explain. “Nothing to be alarmed about.”

Tracy sighs and cries out. “Spirit guide! Are you there, my spirit guide?” She lets herself laugh, before opening her eyes, staring into the candle.

“Ah, begorrah…” She says, imitating the voice of a small Irish child. “ ‘Tis me. Little Colleen O’Leary.”

“Colleen died in Dublin in 1796 when she was just nine years old.” Ms. Omorod explains. Tracy sings softly as she continues. “But she was  _ very _ psychic. Colleen, dearie.” Tracy jumps when Ms. Omorod squeezes her hand. “Is my Ron with you? I’ve got so much to tell him!”

“Oh!” She has to work up to ‘Ron’. She looks around the table. “Ah, Colleen wants to know if there’s anyone named…”  _ Who did Ms. Omorod say was coming last time…? _ “Mr. Scroggie.”

“Actually,” the man, an older gentleman pipes up, “that’s me.”

“Yes. Well, Colleen wants to know if you’ve ever known anyone named...John.”

Mr. Scroggie hesitates. “...No.”

She stares at him for a long moment. “Or it could be Jim.”

“No.” 

“Tom?”

“No…”

“Steve?”

“No…” He thinks about, eyes lighting up, then shakes his head. “No.”

“Dave?”

He nods. “I knew a Dave from Hemel Hempstead-”

“Yes!” She closes her eyes, “So you see, that’s what he’s saying! I just want you to know that he’s doing very well... _ beyond the veil _ .”

Mr. Scroggie’s brow furrows at that. “I saw him walking his dog the other day and he looked perfectly healthy!”

“People go very suddenly.” The woman next to him explains. “Just like my mum.”

Ms. Omorod seems as if she were slapped in the face by such a comment. “Your mum can bloody well wait her turn, Julia Petley! I’ve been coming here for seven years! I do have-”

Multiple things happen at once. Thunder shakes the building as lightning blinds the room, and the door to the flat creaks open. Tracy tries to catch her breath when Julia Petley screams. 

“ _ Ghost! _ ”

Tracy’s head shoots up the pale figure on the staircase. Slowly, they step down the stairs, footsteps heavy and dragging, breathing like gravel. 

Tracy catches her breath, and stands, letting go of hands. “Colleen sent a material guid from the spirit world!” She approaches to rid of the intruder, but Ms. Omorod pushes past her. 

“Bring my Ron to us!” She cries.

The intruder tilts his head. “Who?” 

The voice is so familiar, Tracy takes a step back. That’s the man who calls Shadwell. Has he come looking for him? And why?

Ms. Omorod turns red. “I am looking for my husband Ron Omorod! Can! You! Put! Me! Through?!”

“I don’t know of a Ron.” Shadwell’s sponsor pauses. “However, he must have hidden from my sight, and I can understand why. With a wife as rude to the living and dead as you are, it’s no wonder he has seen an early grave.”

“How  _ dare you- _ ?”

“Leave my sight!” The man roars, actually making Ms. Omorod take a couple steps  _ back _ . “All of you, or you shall face my haunting wrath all your further days!”

That seems to do the trick. Julia screams again, and the three run out, Ms. Omorod pushing ahead of them to hurry down the stairs. Tracy chases after them, and peeks her head out of her flat door to see them run out. Sighing, she slams the door and turns to the hooded sponsor. 

“You better have a good reason for driving off customers!” She storms forward. She tries to remain level headed but this man was  _ stealing  _ her livelihood. 

“I-I’m sorry.” He doesn’t shout anymore, but rather merely whispers. “I wouldn’t come unless I needed your help.”

She pauses, brow furrowing. “Do I know you?”

Shaking hands rise, and pull back the hood to show a familiar face, one that she had never associated with Shadwell’s sponsor.

“Aziraphale!”

He nods wearily, and she can see the dark circles under his eyes. “How are you, Tracy?”

“I-I’m well. H-how did you get here?”

He sighs, shoulders slumping. One hand clutches the other arm. “I’m afraid I’ve learned the hard way that you were right all those years ago, before you quit being an informant for the force. They can’t be trusted.”

“How did you figure that out?” Her eyes follow as he pulls his hand away to fresh blood. She gasps, covering her mouth.

“They tried to fire me in the only way they had power to.” He says wearily. “I know you can take care of gunshot wounds better than I can...please? I need your help.”

She glances to it, and sighs. “All right, fine. Follow me to the kitchen, and shed the jacket.  _ Then _ , tell me everything.”

* * *

War is the first to arrive at the assigned place. She takes her helmet and holds it as she strides into the small cafe. The inside is almost empty save for a couple tables and a lone figure at the arcade games, so she immediately gets the waitress’s attention. 

“Four cups of tea, please. One of them black.” She glances up to the menu, having memorized their orders perfectly.

“You take a seat and I’ll bring it over for you.” The waitress writes the order down, pauses, and looks up to War. “Did you say four? Are you expecting people?”

“Soon I am. I’m waiting on friends.”

“You’re better off waiting in here.” She gestures outside. “It’s hell out there.”

War smirks at that. “Not yet.” She says softly, before sitting at a nearby table where she can watch the entrance.

Famine is the second to arrive, dressed in complete black leather compared to her red. When he sees her, he grins, holding his hands out. “War!”

She rises as he sets his gloves down and embraces her. “It’s been a long time.”

“Famine.” She kisses his cheek with a small smile, before sitting down. “Feels funny, all of us getting together like this.”

He sits down. “Funny?”

She nods. “We’ve spent all these years waiting for the big day, and now it finally comes.”

The door opens again as Famine says, “We’ll have a thunderstorm to ride in.”

“Any idea how far we’ve got to ride?”

“A hundred miles.” War looks up to see their newest member standing by the table, dressed in white leather.

“You must be Pollution.”

They nod. “I am. We have a hundred miles to ride.”

“I would’ve thought it’d be farther, somehow.”

“It’s not the traveling,” they say sagely, “it’s the  _ arriving  _ that matters.” They look around. “Any sign of him yet?”

Thunders booms outside the cafe, and suddenly the beeping at the arcade machines grows faster. The three slowly turn to see a man dressed in complete black and still wearing his helmet turn around from the game. They all rise.

“When did you get here?” War asks for all of them.

He comes to a stop in front of them, but doesn’t answer. Famine gestures to the tea on the table. “Your tea is growing cold, sir.”

“It’s been a long time.” War adds.

“But now we ride.” Pollution chimes in.

“Yes.” Death says finally. “Now, we ride.”


	15. Seven Seas of Rhye

**Chapter 15- Seven Seas of Rhye**

_ “Storm the master marathon _

_ I’ll fly through  _

_ By flash and thunder fire I’ll survive  _

_ (I’ll survive) _

_ Then I’ll defy the laws of nature and come out alive _

_ Then I’ll get you!” _

**Meanwhile, in Tracy’s apartment…**

“So they sent someone to  _ kill you _ ?”

“Yes.” He cries out as she does the final stitch. “Ow!”

“Oh quit whining!” She tuts. “You can do this yourself next time.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “I didn’t think I would be able to without passing out. Plus my bookshop burned down.”

“Oh.” She hums sympathetically. “Did Mr. Crowley tell you that?”

He nods, watching cut the threat and slip his arm into a sling. “Although I will tell you that I am the only person he allows to call him Crowley. To everyone else, he is Crawly.”

“ _ Crawly _ ?” She looks over to him at that.

“Yes.”

She can’t help but start laughing at that. What are the odds that both of them paid Mr. Shadwell?!

Aziraphale looks to her blankly. “What?”

She waves it off as she sighs away her laughter. “Oh, nothing. Just thought of something funny.”

He opens his mouth, perhaps to argue, when a door creaks open. Both go silent as they hear heavy breathing and footsteps.

“That’s Mr. Shadwell.” She says softly, stepping in front of Aziraphale just as Shadwell swings around the corner.

“Get away from her!” He lowers his fist as it appears Madame Tracy is the only one in the kitchen. He looks around. “Where is he?”

“Who?” She asks innocently.

“Some southern pansy.” He says offhandedly. “I heard laughter…”

Aziraphale rises to his feet from behind Madame Tracy. “Not a southern pansy, Sergeant.  _ The  _ Southern Pansy.” He meets Shadwell’s wide eyed gaze firmly. “But you’ll call me Detective Constable Aziraphale Pritchard.”

Shadwell stares at him slack jawed as Aziraphale slowly makes his way through the kitchen.

“Now that you’re here.” Aziraphale continues. “We need to talk. And we need to make it fast. Time is running out.”

“What…?”

Madame Tracy comes up and puts a hand on his arm. “Detective Pritchard has evidence that the government is plotting the end of the world, and that it happens today. So,” she pats his arm as she passes him. She pulls out one of the chairs around the seance table. “Why don’t you come sit down and listen to him?”

* * *

It’s still pouring down as Crowley sits in traffic. He groans as he leans against the window to see the infinite line of cars ahead of him, and the infinite line behind him.

Yes, this is the M25, but why is it  _ this bad _ ? That makes no sense!

He turns on the radio. It runs on static for a long moment, before the voice comes to life. “ _ The Metropolitan Police has just blocked off all entrances and exits to the city of London, citing the inclement conditions of the storm. This makes it officially the worst traffic jam in England’s history.”  _

__ “Shit.” Crowley growls. What a  _ bullshit _ reason! The storm is already letting up! It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize their game. It’s beyond casualties in the line of fire. This is  _ intentional. _

“Come on.” He whispers softly. “Gotta get to Tadfield…” He pulls out of the line of traffic, and begins to drive on the shoulder. He has to meet Aziraphale in Tadfield. He  _ has to _ !

* * *

“Hold on, so you’re saying the end of the world is  _ today _ ?” Shadwell watches Aziraphale pace. “And the Antichrist is here?”

“Yes. We have just over an hour until the Antichrist kills the earth, Sergeant. I’m sure you can see that the end of the world is not something any  _ reasonable _ person would permit.” 

“No.”

“Am I correct?” 

Shadwell chuckles, raising his cup. “Aye.”

“The only way to stop the Antichrist,” Aziraphale continues as Shadwell takes a sip, “is to kill him. And I believe  _ you _ are the man to do it, Sergeant Shadwell.”

Shadwell chokes on his tea. Madame sympathetically pats his back, until he clears his throat and takes a deep breath. He looks up to Aziraphale. “I’m not sure about that, sir. Erm, Witchfinders usually just kill witches.”

“I’m sure you killed  _ lots  _ of those.” Aziraphale agrees with his last statement.

“Well…” He sets down his mug. “Early days.” He thinks about it. “Erm...this Antichrist of yours, how many nipples does he have?”

Aziraphale blinks at that. He would  _ never  _ look for that on anyone, let alone a child! But then again, they don’t know he’s a child…

“Uh...oodles.” Aziraphale lies, and plasters on a grin and a laugh. “Pots of nipples! Nipples everywhere!”

Shadwell laughs along with him. “Then I’m your man!”

Aziraphale stops laughing almost immediately. “Now, Sergeant, what weapons do you have?” 

“Aha!” Shadwell holds up his finger. 

“Uh, yes…” Aziraphale looks away. “Something a little more...substantial.”

“Erm…” He searches himself. “I’ve got pins….and the Thunder Gun of Witchfinder Colonel Dalrymple.”

Aziraphale stops pacing at that, and looks to him. Satisfied that he has Aziraphale’s attention, he continues. “It’ll fire anything. Silver bullets.”

“That’s for werewolves.”

“Eh...garlic?”

“Vampires.”

“Hmm...bricks?”

Aziraphale grins. “That should do nicely!” 

* * *

The blockade comes into sight quickly enough. She (he/him was now fitting like a straightjacket) slows a distance away, and rolls down her window. She’s close enough to see the officers standing in front of the barricades shoulder to shoulder, but far enough away not to be seen herself. 

“Come on…” She groans, and slowly reaches for the book. “Let’s see if Aziraphale was right about these prophecies…” She opens it. “What do you say about manned barricades?” 

She flicks back and forth through pages, beginning to frown when none of the pages have the word ‘barricade’ anywhere in sight. “Why isn’t there an index?”

She starts when a hand reaches through the window, and grabs at her glasses. She jerks away to see Hastur take her glasses in both hands, and snap them in half. Crowley curls her lip at that, but she’s exposed now. 

“You’ll never make it out of London.” Hastur says simply, tossing her destroyed shades to the side. 

She schools her expression into a smirk, and leans against the window. “Hastur! How was your time in the broom closet?”  _ How did he get out? _

“Joke all you like, Crowley.” He growls. “But you can’t get out. You may have narrowly missed justice, but now you’re sentenced to death in this beloved car of yours. You started together, and now you can end together.”

“How poetic of you.” Crowley snarks, hiding her racing heart. 

“You know where the boss’s real son is, don’t you?” Hastur ignores her. He smirks at the thought when Crowley doesn’t answer. “You’ll never reach him. You’re done, Crowley.”

That’s when Crowley gets a sudden,  _ very stupid _ idea, and perhaps one of the most genius things she’s ever thought of. She slips off her thumb ring, grabs her treasured Queen CDs before choosing one, and sliding it in. 

Hastur laughs at that. “Giving up already?” He begins to stride around the front of her car, reaching for something on his waist. 

Crowley narrows her eyes and clenches her steering wheel. “ _ Not yet _ .”

She slams on the gas and the tires squeal. She surges forward, and Hastur jumps back, aiming the gun he just pulled at the windshield. She doesn’t let up on the gas as he begins to shoot. She ducks as the first one pierces her windshield. She swerves as she ducks, and has to sit back straight in order to see. Her first sight is Hastur stopping in his tracks as he whips around and fires again. 

She cries out at the explosion of pain in her right shoulder. Her arm has to fall away, and she grits her teeth with a gritted scream as her other knuckles grow white on the steering wheel. Hastur can’t outrun her anymore and is forced to dive into stopped traffic as she roars past him. Queen blares on all sides of her as the barricade grows closer and closer. The guards notice her, and begin firing at the car again. She ducks down again, only her head peeking through the gaps in the steering wheel. The multiple rounds hit the car all over, and she has to wrench the wheel back as one hits her front right tire. Finally, they’re forced to jump out of her. 

“This is gonna hurt!” She squeezes her eyes shut. 

BAM! The Bentley plows through the barricades, and Crowley grits her teeth at the horrifying screech across the sides. There goes the paint job, but that was the least of her worries.

The gunfire starts up again, so she slams on the gas. The poor Bentley protests, but pushes on. Her arm is throbbing, but the adrenaline is pushing past pain. 

“You are  _ my car _ .” Crowley mutters to the Bentley. “And I will  _ not _ be losing you now. I started this nasty business with you, and I’ll be  _ damned  _ if we finish it together.”

The car stops whining and roars down the empty road, before screeching onto the exit for Tadfield. 

_ Aziraphale, I’m on my way. _

* * *

The storm is finally dying in Tadfield when Adam finally speaks again. 

“Listen, I’m sorry for tying all of you up. I’m going to let you go, and we’ll play a game.” He says evenly, stepping down from his seat. “We’re all going to meet my new friends. You’ll like them so much.” 

He starts with Wensleydale as he stars untying them. Wensleydale flinches away, and Adam sighs. “Come on. We can still be friends, and when the world starts over, you can rule the world.” He finishes with Wensleydale’s binds, and moves to Brian. “Wensley, you can have America. Pepper, you get Asia and Russia.” He unties Brian and moves to Pepper. “Brian can have Europe and Africa...and Dog can have Australia.” Dog whines at his name.

“So we’d rule the world?” Pepper is the first so speak, glaring at him. “But what about you?”

Adam stops untying her, blinking. “What do you mean? I’ll be here, like always.”

“On your own?” Wensleydale finally asks meekly.

“There’s nowhere else I want to go.”

“What makes you think  _ we _ want to leave?” Pepper snaps. “This is our Hogback Wood, too! We don’t want to leave!”

Adam’s piercing gaze turns back to her. “You will do as I say.”

“Or  _ what _ ?” She challenges, not averting her gaze. “You already kidnapped us and forced us to stay here. What more could you do?”

“I mean…” Wensleydale chimes up quietly. “He could kill us.” 

Pepper sighs. “Yes, yes he could.”

Adam actually seems  _ troubled _ at that. He finishes untying Pepper, and steps back. “You aren’t tied up anymore. You can go where you want.” He steps further back. “See? I don’t care where you go.” 

The three exchange a look. After a pause, Pepper gives a decisive nod, and stands. “Goodbye, Adam.”

Brian stands and follows. “Goodbye.”

Wensleydale is the last to spring to his feet, and chase after them. “Actually, yes. Goodbye, Adam.”

“ _ Wait! _ ” Adam jumps down after them. “What do you mean goodbye?”

“Stop following us!” Pepper calls back, not breaking her stride. 

“...I’m not following you.”

“We aren’t your friends anymore! We don’t like you.” 

He pauses, and Pepper steals a glance back at his expression, torn and muddled. “...I don’t care!”

Pepper rolls her eyes and keeps walking, the boys staying hot on her heels. Dog whines, yips, and then chases after them. Adam, originally sad but able to let them leave looks up, and chases after them as they break into a run. “Dog, come back!”

The sun is coming out from behind the clouds as the Them and Dog make it to the edge of the forest, ending up in someone’s back yard. They stop to take a breath, and Adam catches up to them, tears running down his face. They scramble back in fright. 

“ _ Give me back my dog _ !” He sobs. 

Pepper steps forward. “He’s not  _ your  _ dog, he’s his own dog! And I don’t think he likes you anymore!”

“You’re really scary!” Brian adds. “And you aren’t our friend! Friends don’t tie their friends to trees and make them stay in the storm!” Adam is beginning to sob harder, so Brian pushes on. “You aren’t anybody’s friend! You’re going to burn this all away! Why? Because some adults mucked it up? That’s a reason to fix it, not destroy it!”

Adam is covering his ears now, sobbing. Pepper watches him, before shaking her head and taking off towards the porch. 

“Come back!” They stop and look back to see Adam is on his knees. “Please? I’m sorry!” When Pepper shakes her head and keeps walking, he leans back, letting out the screams in his soul. The ear peircing ones of learning that everything he knew was wrong, the ones of his horror at the world he lives in, the shock of learning about his biological father, and the remorse of his hurting his best friends. The Them watch as Adam screams himself out of a voice, then out of energy as he collapses back into the grass, unconscious. 

Instantly, the four run back to him, Dog barking. Brian grabs a cricket bat before he makes it back to Adam. As the boy begins to stir, Brian raises it above his head, hands shaking as Dog licks Adam’s face. Slowly Adam’s eyes open and the shaking in Brian’s hands grows as those eyes turn to him. 

“I’m sorry.” Adam says softly, making the Them stop. Brian slowly lowers the bat as Adam sits up. “I wasn’t...I wasn’t thinking straight. I am now.” He stands, and the Them don’t move, watching him cautiously. He doesn’t look them in the eyes as he leans down and pets Dog’s head, before rising and walking away. Dog follows him, and the Them exchange a glance as they chase after him. 

“Adam!” Pepper calls once they make it to the road. He turns back, and stops. “What have you done?”

“I don’t know.” He admits. He seems older, and perhaps the storm has aged them as well. “But I do know that those people are on their way, and they’re dangerous. Whatever they’re going to stop, we need to stop it.”

Brian stops at that. “We?”

Adam halts as well, and turns back to him. “If you’ll help me. Please,” He adds softly, “I don’t think I can do this alone.”

The Them once exchange a knowing look that speaks conversations, before Peppers looks back to Adam. “We aren’t your friends anymore.” She says finally, “But this is our world, too. We’ll help you stop it.”

Adam nods in understanding. “Meet me by the church with your bikes in fifteen minutes.”

* * *

“I’ve got it!” Anathema looks up as Newt enters the kitchen. He stops in front of her, forcing her to look up. “If Agnes tells you what to do, and we need to do this right, then you just need to pick a card, any card.” She glares at him for a long moment, causing him to push up his glasses and fidget, before looking back down to the box and randomly pulling out a card. She wordlessly hands it to him, and he nods as he takes it.

“‘ _ When the skies are crimson seen, then ye both must stand between the world of life, and the world of war, where the iron bird lands no more.’”  _ Anathema puts on her glasses and peeks over his shoulder. After a moment, she takes it from him. “See?”

She nods as she reads it over to herself. “It could be about us…. ‘ _ Where the iron bird lands no more’ _ ...” She looks up at that. 

“Iron bird. That could be a plane.” She nods, so he continues. “Where don’t they land?”

She thinks about it, before saying, “There’s an American Air Force base outside of town. They don’t land planes there anymore.” Newt nods. “But why there? All they have left is communication technology. Computers and stuff….” 

Newt’s brow furrows as he thinks about it as well. Suddenly, Anathema’s arm holding the card drops, and she sighs. When he looks to her, she looks less shocked and more frustrated. “Oh, my God.”

* * *

“How are we going to get there?” Madame Tracy asks as the three hurry down the steps. Aziraphale looks around in the pouring rain, before running over to a motorcycle. 

“How about this?”

Shadwell freezes in his tracks. “Nay, lad!” He calls. “We won’t all fit.”

“But it’ll be fastest!” Aziraphale calls back before he kneels next to the bike. “Right,” He mutters, “I hate to do this, but…” He sets to work. 

“What is he doing?” Shadwell asks Tracy, who shrugs. 

After a moment, the engine roars to life and Aziraphale rises to his feet. “Climb on!”

“Aziraphale!” Tracy runs up before Aziraphale can climb on. “There’s no way you can drive this!”

“Of course I can. I’ve learned to be adaptable in the force, after all.”

“But not with an injured arm!” She points out, before saying. “I’ll drive, and that’s final.”

She expects a fight from him, but instead, he nods and steps back. She nods decisively, and turns to Shadwell. “Mr. Shadwell, climb on first, and scoot to the back. Then you, Aziraphale, in the middle.” Once both men have climbed on, she climbs up herself, gripping the handlebars. She makes it roar, and grins before looking back. “You ready?”

The two men nod, clinging to each other as if they weren’t enemies. She laughs at that, and picks her feet off the ground. They roar off, and Madame Tracy whoops with the wind blowing through her hair. Behind her, both Aziraphale and Shadwell scream, and she can’t help but laugh as she accelerates down the road towards Tadfield.


	16. We Will Rock You

**Chapter 16- We Will Rock You**

_ “Buddy you’re a young man, hard man _

_ Shouting the street, gonna take on the world someday _

_ You got blood on your face, _

_ You big disgrace _

_ Waving your banner all over the place.” _

**At the Airbase**

The soldier wakes at the mechanical roar, not even remembering falling asleep. A motorcycle comes to a stop at the gate, three people clinging for dear life. The driver sets her legs down, and lets the other two climb off. A man in a grey sweatshirt begins to dig in his pockets for something, but the other (who happens to be holding a  _ very large gune _ ) beats him to it as the soldier sleepily approaches.

“You see this finger, laddie?” Instead of holding up the gun, he shows the soldier his right pointer finger. “This finger could send you to your maker.”

“Shadwell!” The woman hisses.

The other man huffs and holds his hands up in surrender as the soldier approaches with his gun. “It really is vitally important that we speak to whoever is in charge.” 

“He’s telling the truth.” Tracy adds. 

“I don’t- Sir! Ma’am!” The soldier fumbles for a response. “No civilian access. Now, I must respectfully ask you to-”

The tires squealing interrupts him. All four turn around as a banged, dented, and generally beat up Bentley speeds towards them, struggling to remain straight due to a flat tire as ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ blares from the speakers. Finally, they screech to a stop. The door kicks open, and a familiar figure slams the door shut. “You don’t get that sort of a performance from a modern car.”

Aziraphale hurries towards the edge of the group that is closest to her. “ _ Crowley _ .”

“Hey, Aziraphale!” She swaggers towards them, secretly feeling like a badass. “See you found a ride.”

Aziraphale nods. “One problem.” He looks to the army guard. “This young man won’t let us in.”

Crowley looks up to the soldier staring at them, and whispers darkly. “ _ Leave it to me. _ ” She struts to the soldier, fixing him with a bone chilling gaze. “Army man. My friend and I have come a long way, and-”

The gate beeps behind them, and the soldier turns at the sound to see the gate opening. “Which one of you did that?”

Then, everyone sees the blur of a child run through, and the sound of tittering bells as three other children ride through on bikes. 

“Oh hell no!” The soldier snaps. “Get back here-!”

Crowley takes the opportunity of poor attention to swing the book against the soldier’s head as hard as she can. The soldier crumples, silent. “There.” She says finally. “That went well.”

There’s a heart wrenching sound of something dying that catches everyone’s attention, they turn just in time for the Bentley to explode, throwing car parts in every direction. Shadwell, Tracy, and Aziraphale step back, but Crowley does the opposite. Her jaw drops as at first she stumbles towards it, then breaks into a run before falling to her knees in front of it. She can’t bring herself to reach into the flames, already feeling the heat from her distance. 

“Nineteen years and not a scratch.” She murmurs, her wide eyes reflecting the flames. “Now look at you….”

Tracy is watching with her hands over her mouth. Aziraphale’s attention is taken away at the sound of roaring engines, and looks over to see jeeps zooming towards them. He hurries to Crowley’s side. “Crowley! We need your help.”

“Do it without me.” She says numbly, not pulling her gaze from the fire. 

“I can’t! I’m the  _ nice _ one! You can’t expect me to  _ kill _ all those soldiers!”

Crowley doesn’t answer, still staring into the fire. Aziraphale sighs. “Fine.” He says, as he runs back to Tracy and Shadwell. “We’re on our own.”

“What about him?” Tracy asks, still watching Crowley. 

Aziraphale glances to Crowley. “...I don’t know. But we have to keep going.”

Crowley snaps back in at the mention of herself, incorrectly. She squeezes her eyes hard, and reaches for the hot tire rod. She kisses it, looking back to the remains of the Bentley. “Rest in peace. You were a good car.”

She tucks the tire rod under her arm and stumbles back to the group, who was arguing over using a finger or the Thunder Gun as the main weapon. “Stop fighting!” She snaps at them as she takes lead. “Aziraphale?”

He looks up at his name. “Yes?”

She glances back to him. “The color is purple, and someone’s shit is about to get  _ fucked _ .”

* * *

The children drop their bikes as Adam catches up to them. “Where are they?” Pepper asks.

“They must be inside.” Adam pants.

“...Are they grown up?”

Adam nods. “Very powerful, and very dangerous grown ups.” Still, he stands straight and calls: “I’m here!”

The air base remains silent for a long moment. Then, the door to the steel building opens in front of them, and four adults file out. They take a place in front of each child, meeting their gaze as if they were adults themselves.

On the other side of the building, Anathema and Newt watch the Four Horsemen exit. Once they have rounded the corner, the two run in. Anathema gasps as she almost steps on a body. 

“Oh dear Lord…” Newt stumbles back as he takes in the sight. The room is  _ filled _ with dead soldiers, killed where they had been working. The klaxons were ringing from each computer. “What’s happening?”

Anathema runs to the nearest computer, and silently reads the commands on it. “ _ Shit _ .”

“What?” Newt runs over, reads the screen, and also says: “Oh shit.”

“I-I...they hacked into the mainframe. They’ve taken control of every nuclear station, it looks like. They’re set to fire at each other…” She can’t breathe. “They’re really trying to end the world.”

“What do we do?”

Anathema looks up to him with eyes wide, lost, and scared. “I don’t know.”

* * *

“It has begun.” Death states behind his helmet.

Adam looks up at him. “I didn’t ask for it to begin.”

“Your very existence _ demands _ the end, boy!”

Both ignore the jeep speeding towards them, Crowley driving as fast as a military jeep will go as the others cling for dear life. They screech to a stop and climb out.

“One word from you, and you can can finish this. We can make the world anew-”

“That’s him!” Crowley points at Adam. “The curly one. Shoot him, save the world.” 

This derives protests from the Them. Adam doesn’t even acknowledge Crowley. 

“You are part of us.” Death continues. “One word, and I will end their lives.”

“What?” Shadwell asks faintly. “But he’s just a wee bairn...you cannae-”

“Just shoot him!” Aziraphale snaps, wishing his arm wasn’t in a sling. “He’s a threat to the entire world! Shoot him now!”

Shadwell flinches back from Aziraphale, but raises the Thunder Gun. Adam turns and looks directly at him. Shadwell squeezes his eyes shut, pulls the trigger. 

“No!” Shadwell starts when the Thunder Gun is pushed up, and the brick shoots into the sky, and lands on the other side of the airbase. Everyone looks to Tracy, who is trying to catch her breath. “I’m sorry...but he’s just a kid! I couldn’t let you kill him.”

Shadwell shoots her a grateful look and she takes refuge behind Shadwell. Crowley growls, and grabs her hair. 

“Excuse me?” The four look to Adam to find all eight of the children and terrorists alike are staring at them. “Who are you?”

* * *

Anathema shakes her head. “It can’t be hopeless. There has to be  _ something _ we can do.”

“We’re not in a movie!” Newt is hyperventilating. “There’s no handy red wire to cut to stop the countdown.”

She hums, and then turns to the box. “Agnes, do you have any better ideas?” She picks a card at random and reads it. She double takes, brow furrowing, before she reads it out loud. “‘ _ He’s not who he says he is. _ ’” She groans and slams the card down. “Agnes, you’re not even trying.”

Newt won’t look at her, which makes her pause. 

‘ _ Weapons activation in two minutes _ ’.

She slowly looks to him as it dawns on her. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Newt looks down, opening his mouth and shutting it again. “I...I am not  _ technically _ a...uh…”

“A what?” Anathema presses impatiently. “What?”

“I’m not a computer engineer!” He blurts. “I’m actually rubbish with computers! Every time I try to make them work, they break!” 

Anathema’s jaw drops, and she slowly turns away from him. 

“I’m sorry.” He says in a mournful voice, looking at the map of all the nuclear weapons. “We’re doomed.”

* * *

Adam watches, unimpressed as War shows off her skills with the side. The ‘Crowley and Aziraphale problem’ was solved almost not at all, as they were pushed aside but the worst terrorists in humanity.

“Stay sharp, guys.” He says to the Them. “They may be dangerous, but we can take them.”

War ends her show, and laughs at that. “Silly boy. You think you can take on me? I am War! You were made to serve me! To live and die in me!”

Pepper looks at her in boredom. “My mum says that war is masculine imperialism excuted on a global stage.”

War looks to Pepper, and laughs. “A little girl! Why don’t you go home and play with your dolls?”

Pepper’s eyes narrow as she steps forward. “I  _ do not _ endorse everyday sexism!”

War swings down at Pepper with a roar. Pepper ducks and stomps on War’s foot. Like the complete professional she is, War drops the sword and grabs her foot, hopping on the other. Pepper dives down for the sword, and when War recovers, Pepper is pointing it at her chest. “We’re Adam’s  _ real friends _ .” She wrinkles her nose. “Not you lot.”

“Just tell them what you think, Pepper.” Adam encourages. 

Pepper looks back to War she grabs the end with her gloved hand, a monstrous grin bearing down at her. Pepper shakes her head. “I believe in peace,  _ bitch _ !” And she forces the sword down into War’s thigh. The terrorist screams and lets go of the sword as she crumples, cradling her leg as Pepper pulls the sword back out.

“Drop it, Pepper!” She obeys Adam, and drops it. “Pollution’s next. Grab it, Brian!”

Pollution is already approaching the children when Brian lifts the sword.

“I believe in a clean world!” Brian shouts, lifting the sword above his head. He swings down, and Pollution screams as the sword cuts a long gash from shoulder to hip. Brian passes the sword to Wensleydale, who for the first time all day, isn’t afraid as he charges at Famine. 

“And I believe in a healthy lunch!” Wensleydale holds tight as Famine grabs the other end of the sword. Dog barks, and lunges. Famine screams as Dog latches onto his leg. “Actually!” Wensleydale calls. “It’s a very good thing!” He lets go of the sword, and the momentum causes Famine to pull the sword into himself. He gasps and crumples, curling in on himself. 

Finally, Death is the only one left. 

* * *

“We’re idiots.” Anathema turns to Newt suddenly.

“...What?”

“Look. Repair it.”

He looks to her at that. “ _ What _ ?”

“Get this computer room working  _ right now _ .” Anathema demands. “You can fix it, right?”

“I-I mean…I could try.” He opens the computer. “If I wanted to improve this computer’s performance, I would just open up and click on the disc defragmenter.” He inputs the command, and hits enter. The whole room goes dark as the computers shut off, disabling all missiles.

* * *

Death seems to realize what happened as soon as it does. He tenses, and turns back.

“Death!” He turns back when Adam calls him. “This has to stop!”

“It has stopped.” Death responds. “But we will be back. It’s only a matter of time before we are called again.” He bows his head to each as he summons the other horsemen to their feet. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

Tracy huffs at that. “Cheek!”

Pepper wrinkles her nose. “Cheek.”

Death doesn’t acknowledge them as he leads his Horseman away, and disappears. The air instantly relaxes as sirens can faintly be heard in the distance. 

The door to the hub kicks open, and Aziraphale turns to Crowley. “See. That was all solved, without having to kill-”

“Oh, it isn’t over.” Crowley tells him. She shakes her head. “Nothing is over. Our sides still want their war. And they’ll do anything to get it.” She turns away from him, and looks to the children. “Oi. You. What’s your name again?”

Adam looks up when he’s addressed. “Adam.” 

“So you and your friends got together and saved the world. Well done, have a gold star.” She shakes her head as she quips sarcastically. “Won’t make a difference anyway.” 

“You!” Crowley looks up as Anathema points at her. “You, you’re the one that stole my book!”

“Oh!” Crowley’s eyebrows raise. “Book girl! Catch!” 

She tosses Anathema the book. A ripped part of the page flutters out as Anathema catches it. Aziraphale manages to catch the prophecy, and is about to hand it back when he reads it. Instead, he tucks it in his pocket to be used later. Anathema looks around as the sirens grow louder, and everyone turns to the front gate.

A squad car squeals to a stop just in front of the stragglers. At the same time, a limo rolls up in front of the gates. The door to the limo opens swiftly and smoothly as someone in a suit steps out. The lights on the squad car switch off, and a captain steps out as one of the advisors of the Demons passes the car. They both stop, take each other in, and nod before continuing towards the group. Crowley removes her shades and bows low. “Lord Beezelbub…”

“Crawly.” Beezelbub drawls, “The traitor.”

Crowley grimaces at the name and the accusation. “Yeah, that’s not a nice word.”

They ignore her comment. “Where is he? The boy?”

Crowley wishes she had kept her glasses on when she can’t help but glance in Adam’s direction. The captain notices, and smiles when he notices him. “That’s him.” He says and points casually, “Adam Young.” He approaches with a grin, and bends to be at Adam’s eye level. “Young man...this war must... _ restart _ . Right now.”

Adam stares at him blankly.

“A temporary inconvenience cannot get in the way of the greater good.”

“As for what good that stands for has yet to be decided.” Beezelbub continues. “But the battle must be decided now, boy!”

Adam’s brow furrows at that. “You both want to end the world just to see who’s gang is best?” 

Gabriel laughs at that. “Obviously!” His laugh turns bitter. “That was the plan! That’s the whole reason for your existence!”

“I got this.” Beezelbub tells Gabriel and takes over. “Adam, when this war is over, you’ll get to rule the  _ world _ . Don’t you want to rule the world?”

Adam slowly shakes his head. “It’s hard enough to think of things for Wensleydale, Brian, and Pepper to do all the time. I have all the world I need.”

Gabriel wrinkles his nose at that. “But you can’t just  _ deny _ your destiny!”

“And why not?” Aziraphale asks. When he has everyone’s attention, he hurries to stand behind Adam. “Why not?” He asks again. “He’s just a boy, raised by others outside of the extent of the plan. Why should he have to follow something written out for him?”

Gabriel glares at him, but Crowley clears her throat before the captain can speak. 

“Actually that’s a good point.” Crowley joins Aziraphale behind Adam. “Why does he have to listen? If you want your war so bad, why not just wage it without all the dramatics? Or are you just too chicken?”

Gabriel growls, and Adam says. “I agree with them. I will refuse to help you end the world over your petty fight.”

“Listen!” Gabriel points a finger in his face. “You are a disrespectful little  _ brat _ and I hope someone tells your father!” 

“Oh they will.” Beezelbub chimes in, gaze unblinking at Adam. “And he will not be  _ pleased.”  _

The cop and the criminal say nothing more to each other as they turn. The cop returns to his squad car and speeds off, but the criminal does not climb in the limo. Rather, they open the door, and lean in.

“Weren’t they odd.” Madame Tracy comments. Aziraphale nods his agreement, but realizes that Crowley isn’t relaxed and isn’t with the others. In fact, when Aziraphale glances, Crowley has grown ram-rod stiff, eyes glued on Beezelbub’s back. 

“Crowley?” He asks softly. Crowley turns to him, eyes wide, and Aziraphale realizes she’s shaking as panic sets in. 

“Nonononono NO!” Her outburst startles everyone else. She grabs desperately at Aziraphale’s coat. “ _ Shit! _ ” 

“What is it?” Aziraphale holds onto him, for his friend looks on the verge of collapsing. 

“Something’s coming.” Anathema speaks. Her eyes are blown wide.

“They told his father.” Crowley mutters, even though her voice seems to reach across the group. “And he’s here and he will be  _ angry.” _

Crowley can’t look into Aziraphale’s wide eyes. She steals a glance back to see Beezelbub opening the door. Aziraphale’s gaze follows, then snaps back to his friend. 

“Do something!” He insists harshly, shaking her. “Or I’ll…”

Crowley watches with scared eyes as Aziraphale reaches for his gun, hesitates…

“Or I’ll never talk to you again!” He finishes desperately, hands already withdrawing from gun and Crowley. 

Crowley stumbles back with wide eyes, blinking rapidly. The threat sinks in, and her eyes settle. “Buy us some time.” She tells the others as she grabs the edge of Aziraphale’s coat, and puts a hand on Adam’s shoulder. Without waiting for an answer, she pushes Adam ahead of her and pulls Aziraphale along until they’re behind the building. Once there, Crowley lets go of both of them and reaches into her coat pocket to pull out another pair of (surprisingly intact) shades. She slips them on, and refocuses. 

“Adam, listen. Your father is coming, possibly to kill you. Possibly to kill all of us.”

“My father?” Adam looks up at her. “My father wouldn’t kill anyone.”

“Not your real father.” Crowley clarifies. “Your  _ biological _ father. Lucifer. He’s a heartless killer, and he won’t hesitate to do what it takes to get his way.”

“Well what am I supposed to do?” Adam shrugs. “Fight him?”

Crowley slowly shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re going to have to come up with something else.”

“But I’m just a kid!” Adam protests.

“But that’s not necesscarily a bad thing.” He looks to Aziraphale at that, who gives him a gentle hand on the shoulder. “Sometimes children have what we grown ups don’t. Courage. I believe you have the courage to face him and step away unharmed.” He meets Adam’s gaze. “Do what you feel is the best path. And know that whatever you choose, we’ll be behind you.” He looks up to Crowley at that. “Both of us.” 

Crowley smiles fondly at that, but it quickly slips away when a voice shouts. “Where is my son!?”

“That’s him.” Crowley turns back to the other two, and puts her hand on Adam’s other shoulder. “Whatever you’re going to do, make it happen  _ now _ .”

Adam nods, and walks out. Crowley and Aziraphale walk shoulder to shoulder behind Adam, until he comes to a stop in front of Lucifer. The man looks slightly older than his photos, Adam realizes. His hair is grey around the temples, and he has grown out a beard, but his gaze is still the same as always. 

“You?” Lucifer raises an eyebrow. “You’re my son?” He grins in his shark-like fashion. “ _ Come here _ .”

Adam obeys, stepping forward, and takes a deep breath. “You’re not my dad. Dad’s don’t wait until you’re eleven to say hello, then tell you off.”

Lucifer stiffens. “ _ What _ ?”

“If I’m in trouble with my dad,” Adam barrels forward. “It’s going to be with my  _ real dad _ ! Not you!”

“What did you say to me!?”

“You’re not! My! DAD!” Adam screams at him.

“ _ What? _ ” Lucifer thunders, gaze becoming burning.

“You never were.” Adam finishes. He finally relaxes, before tensing again and scrambling back as Lucifer roars.

“You insolent BRAT!” He storms forward and grabs at Adam’s collar. Madame Tracy gasps, Shadwell stopping her from approaching while brandishing his finger. Aziraphale takes a step forward as Anathema screams at Lucifer. “You’re supposed to bring about the end! Looks like I’ll have to show you what happens to disobedient boys!” He raises his hand to strike.

“Stop!”

Surprisingly, Lucifer stops. Adam finds himself jerked out of his grip and pushed behind an adult figure before Anathema grabs him and pulls him back, but he can’t take his wide eyes off the figure. Neither can Aziraphale, from where he had been hunched on the ground, reaching for the discarded gun. For the first time in her long cowardly life, Crowley has stepped directly into the Devil’s path.

The Devil has gone silent, watching her with wide eyes, and no one dares say a word. The only sound that can be heard is Crowley’s erratic breathing; she couldn’t hide her fear even if she tried.

“It’s not his fault. He’s just a boy. Boys can be influenced easily; it was almost too easy…”

“What are you saying, Crawly?” The Devil cuts over her, fist clenching at his side.

Crowley takes a deep breath. “It’s my fault. I-I had a... a cut with some of your partners in London. None of us wanted the city to be destroyed, so I influenced him to disown you. It’s not his fault; it’s mine. All mine.”

For a crawling second, no one says a word. Would the lie settle with the Devil, or would he reject it and continue after his son?

Then, faster than anyone could blink, Lucifer rears his fist back and it cracks across Crowley’s face. Her glasses fly off and she stumbles back, hands going to her nose with a small gasp of pain and coming back covered in blood. The Devil can see her wide eyes in both blue and brown look back at him in horror, but that doesn’t deter him. His hand rears back. The backhand slap snaps her head to the side. Crowley’s knees slam against the concrete. The Devil grabs a handful of her hair and she shrieks.

“I should have known you were the snake in the grass.” He growls, grip unrelenting on her hair. “I should have known you were always working against me!”

He then lets go, and Crowley slumps, breathing hard. As she tries to catch her breath, she begins to slowly realize that she is almost fifty, and it’s beginning to feel that way.

She’s too old to fight back against Lucifer, at least for long. She hopes it’s enough for the others to get away.

With strengthened resolve, she roars and lunges at Lucifer. Her nails barely scrape against his skin as Lucifer bats her in the side of the head. Stars dance, and her shoulder slams into the concrete. She cries out and clutches at the jolts of pain. Lucifer delivers a swift kick to the gut and the barely recovered air is ripped out of her in a gasp. She curls in on herself, coughing.

Lucifer looks down on her, his breath hissing through his teeth. She eyes her former boss, gasping for air and trying not to tremble. Lucifer only watches for a moment more, before turning on his heel towards the others.

Anathema pulls Adam behind her. “You can’t have him!”

Lucifer chuckles, only stepping closer. Anathema backs up, and Newt steps ahead of her. “You underestimate me, my dear.” He says with that shark-like grin. “I  _ always _ get what I want.” He begins to open his suit jacket, reaching into an inner pocket….

He stumbles as his foot is tugged back. He whips around with the gun to see Crowley clinging to his ankle. She grits her teeth and hisses, squinting up at Lucifer. He lets his weight fall back so his other foot can rear back. He hears a crack and Crowley curse, hands fumbling for his ankle. He turns back to Crowley to see a cut bleeding down her forehead and from her mouth. He leans down and grabs the woman by the throat. She grunts as she’s lifted to the same level as Lucifer’s gaze. Lucifer turns up his nose, before throwing Crowley carelessly. She hits the pavement and rolls onto her side with the momentum. She goes still, and her shoulders furiously rise and fall, sometimes shaking with the rest of her form in a wet cough.

She doesn’t even try to move as Lucifer strides towards her. Lucifer cocks the gun as he closes in, stopping just in front of Crowley. He sets his foot on Crowley’s shoulder, and rolls her over slowly. Crowley winces, but doesn’t fight. Lucifer aims the gun directly at Crowley’s head. “You’ve outgrown your usefulness, Crawly. Time to say goodbye-“

Crowley flinches and squeezes her eyes shut at the sharp  _ crack _ . Her hands shoot for her ears as she curls on herself. A moment passes in silence only for Crowley to find that she is still breathing. She slowly opens her eyes to see Lucifer fall to his knees, clutching his chest. Aziraphale stands behind the Devil as he falls, gun still smoking. Slowly, Aziraphale lowers it, now catching onto Crowley’s exposed gaze. His eyes lack remorse, but rather hold steady.

The sound of footsteps snaps both out of their reverie and they turn to see Adam running towards them.

“Stay back!” Aziraphale breaks the silence like the crack of a whip and holds his hand out to stop the boy. Adam surprisingly obeys and slows to a stop, staring at the Devil with wide eyes. The older man sighs. “He’s still dangerous.”

Crowley winces as she drags herself over to Lucifer, every muscle in her body protesting movement, legs not even bothering to cooperate. Aziraphale’s gaze cuts back to Crowley, and in moments, he’s kneeling across from her over the Devil. The man who held all of London in the palm of his hand was now using those same hands to clutch at the wound, blood seeping and staining his fingers as he gasps for air. As Crowley leans over him, Lucifer’s gaze snaps to her and he grits his teeth.

“ _ You.”  _ He growls. “ _ You betrayed me.” _

“I did what needed to be done.” Crowley replies solemnly. “We didn’t need to destroy everything.”

Lucifer gives a wet laugh that turns into a coughing fit. Blood trickles down from his lips. His left hand stops trying to plug the wound and reaches for an inner pocket. Aziraphale readies his gun again and Crowley pushes away only to watch Lucifer pull out an old phone, having lasted for years and years. With a blood-stained grin, he presses one button and the phone beeps in confirmation. Crowley’s eyes widen, and Lucifer laughs again.

“You’re dead, Crawly!” His eyes are beginning to lose focus. “My demons won’t rest until they have their vengeance. They won’t stop haunting you until you’re dead,  _ Anthony Jay Crowley _ !”

His last breath is ripped from him in his final declaration, and he stiffens with an attempted gasp that never came. The phone clatters from his limp hand into the pool of blood underneath the fallen Devil.

Aziraphale lets out the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. His eyes search the body of Lucifer, before roving up to Crowley. His companion hasn’t moved, eyes frozen on where the phone had been resting in Lucifer’s hand.

“Crowley.” He breathes finally. “You…”

Crowley nods slowly but says nothing.

“Your name…your…your…oh hell, he gave everything- “

“Let’s not talk about this now.” Crowley interrupts, gaze stealing up behind Aziraphale. The detective turns to see the car slow to a stop in front of the crowd of people. The engine dies, and a man steps out.

“Adam!” The mustached man calls, and sighs in relief when he spots him. “Oh Adam…”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “That’s…not his father.”

“It is.” Crowley says in a raspy voice. “It is  _ now _ , and it always was.” When Aziraphale looks to her, she manages a smile that is on shaky ground. “He did it. He’s free.”

Adam’s father slows to a stop as he manages to peek past his son and Aziraphale to see the body of Lucifer Morningstar.

“Adam?” He slowly steps to his son, grabbing his hand. “Are you alright? What happened?”

Aziraphale’s gaze snaps back to Crowley, who gives him a nod to go ahead. He sighs, straightens his coat as best as it can between the fire and the blood, and rises to his feet.

“Excuse me, sir.” Mr. Young looks to Aziraphale once he approaches, and he pulls out his badge. “Constable Detective Aziraphale Pritchard, Scotland Yard. Allow me to explain the situation.”

* * *

After Mr. Young collected the children with a pale face and a tight grip on his son’s shoulder, Madame Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell followed suit. Crowley had finally gotten to her feet and had put distance between herself and her former boss. Her arms are crossed tight, and she tries to look anywhere but the body. Her glasses are still missing, an anomaly for the woman who always tries to hide her gaze. But if one were to look into her eyes, they would see an emptiness as dark and deep as a pit, all emotions long lost in there.

Aziraphale was just returning to Crowley when a voice shouts: “Hey you!”

He stops and turns as the woman ( _ Anathema _ , he remembers) catches up to him. Her brow is furrowed in thought. “You said Scotland Yard. Neither of you are from around here, are you?”

Crowley doesn’t answer, so Aziraphale supplies: “No, I’m afraid not. We’re both from London.”

“Well, since your…” She steals a glance to Crowley, “ _ friend _ lost his car, do you two need a ride to the bus station? I’m sure Newt would be fine with giving you both a ride.”

Both Anathema and Aziraphale ignore Newt’s reluctance (‘ _ are you sure? _ ’ He asks as he steals a glance to where Crowley is still staring into space), as the latter nods. “That would be delightful, thank you.”

She nods and leans over to Newt. He nods and hurries off. “I’ll get the car.”

Aziraphale nods his thanks before crossing to Crowley, who doesn’t acknowledge his presence. He sees the shades on the ground and picks them up, before sighing.

“Crowley, dear.” When Aziraphale makes her turn her head, she finally blinks and focuses on him. But he’s already seen the empty gaze.

“Oh, dear. I can’t imagine the past few days have been easy for you.” He doesn’t expect Crowley to respond; he’s just speaking to fill the silence and to hope Crowley at least hears him. “You must be going into shock from all this...come now.”

Crowley blinks rapidly and looks down to where Aziraphale has taken her hand. She steals a glance to the back of Aziraphale’s head and decides to say nothing about it as her friend leads her to where the blue car is now waiting. Newt climbs out and grabs the back passenger door.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale says softly as he climbs in and scoots across the seats, before pulling Crowley in. The latter slides in wordlessly, and when Aziraphale tries to let go of her hand, she clings tighter.

Newt and Anathema climb in the front. “I’ll give you directions.” Anathema tells Newt. “Just get back on this road.”

Newt nods, and they start the journey in silence. They leave the empty base and return to the forested road.

Anathema finally glances in the rearview mirror and meets Aziraphale’s gaze. That gives her permission to turn around to face him. “How long have you two known each other?”

“Oh, a very long time. About thirty years now, I believe.”

“And how long have you known…” She breaks off, but she doesn’t need to finish.

“Personally? I hadn’t known Lucifer until today. My dear Crowley here…he’s known him even longer than I’ve known him. That was…” He steals a glance to Crowley, and his thoughts begin to fragment. Crowley is clutching her shoulder as dhe stares at the back of Anathema’s seat. She grits his teeth and clenches her shoulder tighter.

“Crowley?” She doesn’t want to let go of her shoulder, so Aziraphale has to pry her fingers away, only to find them coated with fresh blood. “Crowley!”

She jumps. “Christ!” She goes to clutch her shoulder again, but Aziraphale stops her.

“Coat off. Now.”

Crowley focuses on him. “Aziraphale, let go.”

“ _ No _ . You’re covered in blood! Take off your coat this instant!”

Crowley grumbles and begins to shrug off her coat when she freezes, hissing through her teeth. Aziraphale tuts and grabs the collar before gently pulling it off. He slowly forces Crowley to face him, and his companion doesn’t fight. Aziraphale immediately sees the fabric sticking to her shoulder.

“When did you get  _ shot _ ?”

Crowley grumbles out an unintelligible answer. Aziraphale sits up, and meets Anathema’s gaze. “I need a shop!”

“Way ahead of you.” Anathema says, and points to a building on the right. Newt immediately pulls over.

Aziraphale immediately lays Crowley back so her head is resting against the car door. “ ‘s not that bad.” Crowley mumbles.

“ _ Crowley! _ ” Aziraphale pushes her back down. “Don’t move.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t.” Anathema volunteers. Aziraphale nods, and immediately slips out.

The clerk doesn’t glance up as Aziraphale hurries in. Immediately, he makes a beeline for the medical supplies. He gathers three rolls of gauze before grabbing a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He shifts it in his arms before making scanning and finding an emergency sewing kit. He snatches it, before grabbing a shirt nearby. He begins his way to the front, pauses, and then manages to grab a bottle of wine off the shelf before approaching the counter.

The clerk finally looks up as Aziraphale spills it all over the counter. “Rough night?” She asks, scanning his bloodied outfit.

“…You could say that.”

She hums, and types up his total. “Would you like a bag?”

“Please.”

She nods, and slides everything but the wine into a bag.

“Thank you.” He nods, and slaps down the note. “Keep the change.” He calls back as he grabs the bag and the wine before hurrying out.

Crowley hasn’t moved as Aziraphale opens the door. Her gaze slowly roves from the ceiling to him. “…Angel?”

“I’m here.” Aziraphale assures her as he climbs in and closes the door. He sets down the wine and bag. “Let’s sit you up.”

She groans but doesn’t fight as she’s sat up. Aziraphale retrieves the bag and pulls out the sewing kit. The scissors are small inside the bag, but they seem like they will do the job.

Crowley watches him with wide eyes. “Wha’ are you doin’?”

“I’m sorry, my dear. I need direct access to the wound.”

“No,  _ no _ not the shirt!” Crowley moans, but Aziraphale ignores her as he slowly cuts away the shirt from his skin. He winces as he pulls the fabric away to show the bloodied hole.

“Does anyone have a torch?” He calls. Within moments, someone hands him one and he flicks it on. He turns the light to the wound and peers in.

“Oh dear.”

Crowley cranes her head. “What?”

Aziraphale hands back the light before retrieving the bottle of wine. He pops the cork and hands Crowley the bottle. “You’re going to want this.”

Crowley accepts it. “Why?”

Aziraphale bites his lip and pulls out the rubbing alcohol. The scissors return and he quickly dips them in. Crowley watches with wide eyes.

“No…no no  _ please no! _ ”

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes. “I need to retrieve the bullet. Just drink, my dear.”

Crowley clenches her eyes shut, gripping the neck of the bottle. Anathema climbs over the seat and shines the flashlight over his wound. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, before poking the scissors into the wound.

Crowley can’t help the cry, the pain catching her off guard. Aziraphale pauses and pushes the bottle towards him, and Crowley takes a swig. Aziraphale begins to dig and Crowley chokes on the drink.

“Shh…I’m almost there, my dear.” However, Aziraphale waits until Crowley recovers and wipes the red wine from her chin before continuing. Crowley bites her lip and squeezes her eyes shut, and her groans fight to be heard.

Aziraphale sighs in relief when the scissors return with a bullet. He pulls out his handkerchief and drops the bullet in it. “There we go. The bullet is out, my dear.”

Crowley grunts, and warily opens her eyes. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

Aziraphale nods wearily. “I need to clean and stitch the wound closed, to reduce the risk of infection.”

Crowley closes her eyes again, before raising the wine bottle to her lips. “Fine.” She says when she gulps down the wine. “Let’s get this over with.”

Aziraphale looks to Anathema and Newt. “I need one of you to hold the light, and one of you to hold him down. This is going to hurt.”

Anathema nods and passes the torch to Newt before grabbing onto Crowley. Newt leans over the seat with the torch, swallowing deeply. “Ready.”

Aziraphale nods and sighs. “Right. Here I go.” He takes a shred of Crowley’s shirt and wraps it over the top of the rubbing alcohol before dousing it. He bites the inside of his cheek and begins to wipe the wound.

It’s good that Anathema is holding down Crowley, because the woman recoils and her eyes shoot open at the touch. Aziraphale forces himself to continue, despite feeling how tense his companion is beneath his hands. Once he’s done, he tosses the rag to the side, and scrambles for the sewing kit.

Crowley is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Her bloodshot eyes latch onto Aziraphale as she shakes her head. “Please… _ please _ no more…”

“I’m sorry, my dear.”

“ _ NO!” _ Her voice cracks, head shaking growing more violently. “Just let me die! They’re going to kill me anyway!”

Anathema throws Aziraphale a horrified look that he ignores as he leans forward and cups her face. “Anthony Crowley, look at me.”

She obeys, freezing beneath him.

“I’m not going to let them kill you.” He says softly. “You are going to make it. I promise.”

Crowley says nothing, just stares at him with wide eyes. Aziraphale manages a reassuring smile, and brings the bottle to Crowley. “Drink.”

Crowley obeys, taking the bottle again, and Aziraphale nods. He grabs the needle and dips it in the rubbing alcohol before stringing thread through it. Crowley takes a deep breath and a gulp of wine, clinging to the neck of the bottle for dear life. 

When Aziraphale begins the first stitch, Crowley groans through gritted teeth. When Aziraphale tries to put a gentle hand on her forehead, she shakes it away. “Just get it over with!” 

Aziraphale nods and continues stitching. Crowley’s teeth are gritting so hard, she’s sure they’re wearing away. Finally, Aziraphale snips the final string with a sigh. “There. The worst is over.”

“Finally.” Crowley grunts, finally beginning to sound almost like her old self. Aziraphale gives a short bark of laughter as he grabs the gauze and unrolls it. Anathema helps sit Crowley up enough to where Aziraphale is able to wrap from her shoulder and around her chest a couple times. He ties it, before letting go. Anathema lays Crowley back and she grunts softly, relaxing against the car door. 

“Is he going to be okay?” Anathema whispers to Aziraphale, who nods. Once she has that approval, she climbs back up front. Newt switches off the torch and turns back around. He buckles back up, before reversing out from in front of the store. 

Aziraphale gathers everything and puts it back in the bag. He sighs and shrugs off his coat. 

“Here.” He looks over as Crowley holds out the bottle of wine to him. “You look like you need it more than I do.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinks, but takes it from her. “Thank you.”

Crowley nods and leans back as Aziraphale takes a swig. He sighs and sets the bottle down in the side of the car door. “Do you want to put a shirt on?”

“Yeah.” She grunts and begins to sit up. Aziraphale grabs the forgotten cloth and slips it over Crowley’s head. Crowley grunts as she slowly raises her arms above her head, and Aziraphale pulls it down over her. Crowley glances down to the black fabric as Aziraphale grabs her jacket and slips it up her arms. 

“Here you go.” He says softly. “Like nothing happened.”

“Yeah,” Crowley is still staring down at the shirt. “I suppose so.” 

“Oh, wait!” Crowley looks up just in time for the shades to be slipped over her eyes. A polarized Aziraphale smiles softly at her. “I figured you would be wanting these.” 

“...Thank you.”

Aziraphale’s smile turns weary at that, but merely shakes his head before looking away. Anathema turns back forward and looks to Newt with a knowing smile. Newt looks to her blankly, and she shakes her head before pointing out the window. “Stop over here.” 

The car slows to a stop in front of a bus stop. Newt parks and Anathema looks back to the passengers in the back of the car. “This work for you two?”

“Oh, this is wonderful, my dear. Thank you.” Aziraphale grabs his coat and the bottle of wine, before ushering Crowley out. Crowley stumbles out but manages to right herself as Aziraphale climbs out and closes the door behind her. The car slowly takes off, but neither watch it go as Crowley stumbles to the bench. She plops down with a weary sigh. 

“Hold this.” Crowley looks up, and takes back the bottle of wine as Aziraphale sets down his coat on the bench. “I’ll go pay for our tickets.” 

Crowley nods as Aziraphale takes off. She stretches his legs out and slumps out against the bench before taking another swig of wine. Life was growing a comfortable fuzzy, the waves of pain growing softer and softer. She sighs and leans her head back, eyes beginning to close. 

“Here you go, my dear boy.” Crowley opens her eyes and leans her head back up just in time for Aziraphale to hand her a ticket. He sits down right next to her, and pockets his own ticket. “It was a little more to get to London, but it should do well enough.” 

Crowley hums softly, and takes a swig of wine. 

“It seems to have all worked out for the best, though.” Aziraphale continues, hands folded in his lap. “Just imagine how awful it would have been if we had been at all competent.” 

Crowley opens her mouth to argue, pauses, and sighs. “Ah, point taken.” She’s distracted as Aziraphale grabs something from within his coat. He cocks his head slightly. “What’s that?” 

Aziraphale glances down to it, before handing it to Crowley. She takes it, and her brow furrows as she examines it. “It fell out of Agnus Nutter’s book.”

“‘For soon you will be out of your depth, and playing with fire.’” Crowley reads out loud, before flipping it over to find the rest of the burned paper blank. “So this is the last one of Agnes’s prophecies?” 

When she looks to Aziraphale, he’s watching her. He glances down to the paper in Crowley’s hand, “It appears so. Seems to be about us.”

“Hm.” She’ll have to file that away for later. They’ll need to solve that. “And Adam? Is he...normal?” 

“As far as I can tell.” Aziraphale’s attention is distracted by the sound of tires approaching. Crowley follows his gaze to the mail truck that rolls to a stop nearby. He takes a swig of wine again.

“Angel?” Aziraphale looks back to him and accepts the wine. “What if the Commissioner had a hand in this all along? Maybe she planned this from the very beginning?”

Aziraphale frowns in thought. “Could have. I wouldn’t put it past her.” He takes a drink as Crowley mulls over that.

“Excuse me gents.” Aziraphale looks up at that, and Crowley turns back to the postal man. “Do you have the uh…” 

Aziraphale blinks, handing the wine back to Crowley, and pulls out a box from beneath the bench. Crowley frowns.  _ When did that get there? _

“Ah,” the postal man smiles, “didn’t want them falling into the wrong hands.” He takes it from Aziraphale, and looks through it. He gives a satisfied nod and shuts it again before setting it down again. “Good thing you were here, really.” 

“Ah,” Aziraphale gives a satisfied smirk. “How nice to have someone who recognizes  _ our part _ in-”

“I need someone to sign for this.” The postal man holds out a clipboard. Crowley looks up to Aziraphale as he attempts to hide a grin. 

Aziraphale blinks, and his smile quickly turns into something tight and faint. “Oh right.” He accepts the clipboard and quickly signs for it. 

“Do you believe there’s something else going on?” Aziraphale looks up at that, and the postman clarifies. “That there are things that are hidden from most people, but perhaps shouldn’t?”

Aziraphale falters for words for a long moment. “I suppose I must do.” He says finally as he hands back the clipboard, but he’s frowning now. 

“Yeah.” The postal man laughs at that as he accepts the clipboard and places it on top of the box. “If I were to tell my wife what happened to me today, she wouldn’t believe me.” His expression fades into something somber, if not haunted, as he pockets his pen. “And I wouldn’t blame her.” 

With that the postman returns to his truck, before taking off into the night. Crowley hums. “Glad he survived.”

Aziraphale looks to him. “What do you mean?”

“Something tells me he had to deliver all of those to those ‘Horsemen’. They don’t seem the type to spare lives.”

“Hm, I suppose so.”

Crowley nods, then notices something in Aziraphale’s hand. “What’s that

“Oh there’s the bus.” Crowley nods in response as she takes a drink of wine. Aziraphale looks down to his clasped hands. “I suppose I better ask the bus driver to drop me off at the bookshop.”

Crowley stops drinking, and looks to Aziraphale. Her expression seems to mourn, to pick words gently. “It burned down, angel.” Aziraphale looks up to her at that. “Remember?”

Aziraphale can’t look at Crowley at that, swallowing his tears back. Crowley is still watching him. “You can stay at my place, if you’d like.”

Aziraphale does look at her at that. He swallows, and shakes his head. “I don’t think my side will approve.”

Crowley frowns at him. “You don’t have a side. Not anymore. Neither of us do. From now on, it’s just you and me.” 

Aziraphale nods thoughtfully as the bus rolls to a stop in front of them. Crowley slowly stands, and Aziraphale hurries to help her onto the bus. Once he sits Crowley down, he sits next to her, and she looks to him in surprise.

“I suppose you’re right.” He says softly. Then, he looks to her as the bus begins to roll. “Before we can go to your apartment, can we make a quick stop?”

* * *

**An hour later**

Crowley wearily sighs when she sees the door is broken down. “Damn.” She mutters, and looks to Aziraphale. “Excuse the mess when you come in. I left in a hurry.”

Aziraphale nods quietly as he follows Crowley through the broken doorway, clutching a file close to his chest. Their quick trip had been to the police station. Crowley had waited outside as Aziraphale snuck into Gabriel’s office, copied everything on his foolishly unlocked computer to the internet. Neither of them knew now, but the files would go viral overnight. Aziraphale at least hopes they catch the government’s attention. That’s what he told Crowley at least. And she trusts him.

Aziraphale happens to look over to the wall. “Is that... _ blood _ ?”

Crowley stops and looks over. “Oh shit, yeah! Um, don’t come any closer!”

“Why?” He asks as he steps forward, then stumbles back at the sight. “ _ Is that a body _ ?”

“Hush!” But she nods. “I-I’m sorry. I’ll get rid of it right now. Just wait here.”

Before Aziraphale can protest, Crowley hoists out the body and runs out, leaving Aziraphale alone. And so he wanders. Wanders to the plant room and is amazed at their fruitful beauty enough to lend a comment or two. Wanders to the kitchen gathering dust. Wanders to the bathroom, and gawks at the ridiculous amount of red hair dye (well at least he knows it’s no longer natural). 

Aziraphale is examining the bedroom when he hears footsteps. “I’m back!” Crowley calls, then stops in the doorway to see Aziraphale. “Oh.”

Aziraphale jumps off the edge of the bed. “I-I’m sorry! I should have asked-!”

“No, no.” Crowley stops him. “It’s okay. I...can I join you?”

When Aziraphale hesitantly nods, she flops down with a sigh. “God.” She murmurs, rubbing her eyes.

“Are you alright, dear?” 

Crowley stiffens, hiding her face, but says: “Yeah. Just...just a long day.”

Aziraphale thinks for a moment, before crawling onto the bed. “Sit up.” 

She removes her hands to look up to him. “What?”

“Sit up.” He insists. 

“Okay, okay…” She slowly sits up with a groan. “Happy?”

“Very.” Aziraphale hums, placing his hands on her shoulders. Slowly he begins to rub. Despite all the fear screaming in her to tense and run, she melts in his hands, and moans softly. Aziraphale smiles softly. “Feel good?”

“Oh  _ god, _ yes!” She leans into his hands. “It’s so good! I love you.”

Aziraphale freezes and Crowley’s eyes snap open. “...What did you say?”

Crowley slips out of his grip. “N-nothing. I didn’t say anything!”

“...You love me?”

Crowley freezes, back to him. She closes her eyes, bites her lip. No use in lying anymore. She takes a deep breath. “Yes.” She admits, keeping her back to him. “I’ve loved you since the beginning. You-You may not feel the same, and that’s okay. If you want, I-I’ll sleep on the couch and after tonight, you never have to see me again.”

“ _ Crowley… _ ” He breathes, and she tenses, especially when his hand reaches for her. “Crowley, can you look at me?”

She shakes her head, but he gently turns her around as he stands. He cups her face, and her teary eyes look down to his hands. He stares at her lips for a long moment, before meeting her gaze. “My dear.” He says softly, voice soft unlike anything she’s ever heard. “How could you think I wouldn’t love you? You’ve held my heart for years, and I don’t want it to belong to anyone else.” Before Crowley can say another word, he leans in and kisses her. 

Instantly, she melts into his hold. He holds her close, and when their kiss breaks, he picks her up and carries her to the bed. When she’s down on it, he kicks off his shoes before crawling close and holding her.

“...You  _ love _ me too?” She asks finally, softly.

He nods against her. “And I always will, Crowley.”

“Anthony.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You can call me Anthony.”

“Even when you’re a woman?”

“I’ll think about it.” She turns to him, meeting his gaze with shining tears. “I just want to hear my first name from your lips for the rest of my life.”

Aziraphale can’t help but blush, even as he says. “But we may die tomorrow.”

Her gaze falls. “You’re right.” Then, she looks back up to him. “Are you sure your plan is going to work?”

“...I hope so.” He cups her cheek. “But no matter what happens tomorrow, I want to hold you and make up for all these lost years and broken hearts, if you’ll let me.”

Anthony smiles wetly, and nods. “Always, angel.  _ Always. _ ” 


	17. We Are the Champions

**Chapter 17- We are the Champions**

_ “Good morning. Our leading story: many of the Metropolitan Police’s highest ranking officers have been arrested this morning in charges related to corruption, and treason. They, along with a large core of London’s notorious Demons, were arrested both by the Thames, and by the business district in an unnamed warehouse that has since burned down. M16 was notified this morning of leaked files from the police database, and traced it not only to its source, but to the exact location of its two authors at the Thames and the warehouse. The two authors were the most unlikely of partners, having apparently worked together for over twenty years.” _

The picture changed from the broadcaster to an older picture of a man in uniform beside a mugshot of another man. Mr. Young set down his tea, nearly dropping it as the two men on the telly look  _ scarily _ familiar. 

“Adam!” He calls, just as his boy is wiping his feet at the back door. He looks up at his name, and approaches his father. “Do you recognize these two men?”

Adam looks to the television as the picture changes to one more recent: a snapshot from a surveillance camera as the two sit on a bench, oblivious to the camera. The officer is dressed down, a little softer around the edges with his hands clasped in front of him. The criminal has cut his hair and now wears shades over his eyes as he slumps on the bench. The broadcaster continues offscreen.

_ “Detective Constable Aziraphale Pritchard has been a member of Scotland Yard for over thirty years. He has been monumental in helping the force solve multiple cases in the late 90’s, and has recently been placed as undercover surveillance in Soho. Mr. Anthony Jay Crowley was arrested at seventeen years old for charges of larceny and car thievery. Two years later, he was let off on parole and was immediately contracted into the mob ‘Demons’ as a getaway and delivery driver. According to the report attached to leaked files, the two met in 1989 as Detective Pritchard was the first officer to respond to the bombing that had killed Adam and Eve Winslett and set the whole city into a panic.” _

__

“Well?” Adam pulls his attention from the television as the broadcaster continues explaining the backstory of the two, in order to look to the barely held together expression of his father.

He nods. “I do. They were at the air base.”

His mother gasps, and crosses to him, taking his face in her hands. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”

Adam meets her gaze and shakes his head. “No. Why would they?”

“Because-!” His father sputters, rising to his feet. “Because one of them was a dangerous criminal and apart of the most dangerous criminal group in England, and the other was an officer who knew and just  _ let _ that man saunter freely-“

“Mr. Crowley stepped in front of me when his boss tried to get to me and took every hit for me that he could. Detective Pritchard shot the man, and kept me far away from him, even after he died.” He steps away from his mother. “They didn’t lie to you, dad. I’m okay.”

Mr. Young frowns, and returns his attention to the screen as it changes to a crowded dock at the Thames with an ambulance.

“ _ Though numerous parts of the files were permanently blacked out, including the name and contact information concerning a child of interest-“  _ The Youngs look to their son at that, who is watching the screen silently- “ _ M16 was able to quickly decipher the information and locate Detective Pritchard and Mr. Crowley, alongside multiple Demons and police officers caught red-handed. Both were rushed to the hospital, one in critical condition, but our sources at M16 say that both are expected to make a full recovery. At this time, both are unavailable for comment.” _

Adam finally looks away as Dog whines at his feet. His expression is hard to read, but he finally sighs to himself, before meeting his parents’ gazes. “I think I’m going to go upstairs.”

Both nod. “Okay dear,” Mrs. Young says softly, and kisses Adam’s head. Adam closes his eyes at the contact, before opening them and heading up the stairs, Dog at his heels. His parents silently watch him go, both struggling to wrap their minds around all that had happened to their son.

Adam closes his door, and slowly approaches his window overlooking the garden. The sun was slowly setting, distancing his world of Tadfield from everything else that had happened just the day before. He takes a deep breath, and his gaze travels to the letter sitting on his windowsill. He picks it up again, investigating the scratch writing of his name in the front of the envelope. He opens it to take in the letter again, Mr. Crowley’s handwriting explaining the final legalities after the death of the man who claimed to be his father.

_ ‘Lucifer only had enough to add your name to the will he had created. That is also why Aziraphale and I had to black out your name in the police files: once he knew, they knew. _

__

_ However, this means that a lawyer should be arriving to your home in the following weeks. They may ask to conduct a paternity test. Then, when you pass it, you will find out that he left you his fortune. I guess he assumed you would run into his arms the moment he arrived and would agree to be his son. You will receive checks monthly until you turn 17, then the account will be at your full discretion until the money is gone. The company will pass into different hands and move in a different direction. _

__

_ Aziraphale tells me that this may be hard on your parents, finding out that you are not their biological son. I know it’s a lot to ask an eleven year old, but take care of them. You chose them over Lucifer. Remind them of that. And don’t forget about your friends. That wild bunch seem to have had your back throughout the thick and thin. _

__

_ This will probably be the last you hear from Aziraphale or myself. So….good luck.’ _

__

Adam sets down the letter and looks back out to the setting sun. Everything is going to be okay. Of course it would be.

He’s with his family.

**Over a year later**

Anathema had decided to take it slow, and Newt had been fine with that. He could return to Dorking with his mum while Anathema settled and moved at her own pace. He would always be there with her.

And today was the day. The big step.

She comes out of the cottage as soon as Dick Turpin rolls to a stop outside. He climbs out and first goes to embrace her. She accepts it. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” He admits as they both let go and step back. She smiles and takes his hand, before leading him to the trunk. He pops open the trunk and lets go of her hand to grab a box. She grabs one beside his and immediately heads back to the cottage. He watches her go, hand drifting to his pocket. If only she knew how big of a day it was going to be…

“Well, isn’t this a nice place.” Newt’s mother remarks as she climbs out of the car. “Dear, where do you want me to put this cake I made?”

“Uh, just follow me, mum.” He grabs a box before leading the way into the cottage. The cool breeze is an invitation to cool autumn days upcoming as mother and son step into the cottage.

Anathema looks up, and smiles when she sees them. She crosses and takes the cake from Mrs. Pulsifer. “It’s good to see you again, miss. Would you like to sit?”

“Oh, thank you dear.” Newt’s mother sits down at the table, watching as Anathema sets the cake on the counter.

“Do you have any more boxes in the car?” Anathema asks Newt.

“Uh…just one or two.” Most everything that he had was already moved into the small cottage. “I can get them.”

She nods, and he leaves the cottage to his open trunk. He grabs the final box and is reaching to close the trunk, when a car honks behind him. Starting, he slams the trunk shut and turns to see a small truck rumble to a stop. The window rolls down, and two familiar faces smile at him.

“Good morning Sergeant Shadwell.” He nods to the two. “Madame Tracy.”

“What are you doing here, laddie?” Shadwell accuses across from the driver’s seat.

“I…I’m moving in.”

“Still with thae’ witch?”

He nods, and Shadwell humphs at that.

Madame Tracy tsks at that, and leans against the window. “Don’t mind him. How wonderful for you to have found such a lovely woman. Have you sealed the deal yet, my dear?”

“I um…”

“What are you two doing here?” The three turn to see Anathema and Mrs. Pulsifer have ventured out following the noise. “I thought you bought a bungalow.”

“Oh,” Madame’s Tracy smile brightens when she sees Anathema, “we did. We’re just helping some good friends move to Tadfield. They’re coming from a nice beachside house in South Downs, but I guess they wanted a change of speed.”

“Tadfield?” Newt asks. “As in one of the cottages?”

Shadwell grunts, glaring out the window. “Aye, but they didn’t tell us which was theirs, so we have to  _ wait _ on them-“

“They had to grab some last-minute things from the market, dear.” Tracy placates. “You know they want to have some food and drinks for the next few days while they unpack.”

Something rumbles down the way, and all heads turn. “Oh, that must be them now!” Tracy notes with excitement. Within moments, a shiny, black Bentley (seemingly restored) roars past the truck and the cottage. Shadwell and Tracy quickly say their goodbyes before following the black car down the road.

The trio watches them go for a long moment. “How odd.” Mrs. Pulsifer finally comments.

Anathema looks to Newt, and takes the box from him. “I’m going to put this down really quickly. You two wait here.”

“Why?” Newt asks as she hurries up the stairs. She pauses and turns around.

“Aren’t you a little curious about the car and Shadwell and Tracy?”

“Well…of course.”

“Good.” She holds her head high. “Because we’re going to go investigate.”

-

When they finally reach the cottage with the black Bentley out front, Tracy is by the truck.

“Oh!” She stops from where she had been reaching for a box and waves. “How nice of you to join us! I’m sure those two won’t mind the extra help, especially from some familiar faces.”

“…Who are you helping, exactly?” Anathema asks.

Before Tracy can answer, someone calls: “Oi!”

The four turn as a familiar couple hurry to them, Diedre hurrying to keep up with Arthur. They recognize Anathema and Newt, so they make a beeline to the two. “Have you two seen Adam?”

They shake their heads, but Tracy speaks up. “Oh! He and his friends are inside helping move things into the house.”

Sure enough, four slightly older children barrel out of the house and to the black Bentley with a dog on their heels. Their leader, Adam, wrenches open the door and begins to pull out a large box of books.

“Careful!” An older man follows them out, a man so familiar. He has grown out a beard, and gray begins to mix with his blonde curls. He’s also adopted glasses, which slide down the bridge of his nose. He takes the box away from Adam gently. “These are the few remaining first editions in the entire world.”

“Angel, it’s okay.” A hand rests on ‘angel’s’ shoulder, and he turns to his partner, just as familiar. The shades, black leather, snake tattoo and the green ring are still in their expected places. However, their hair has grown out in curls, and resembles a lion’s mane that lays across their shoulders. Their temples are turning gray, and there is a hint of makeup across their face, highlight sparkling in the faint sunlight. Finally, on their left hand, which rests on their partner’s shoulder, a beautiful diamond ring shines in the sunlight. “Adam knows the importance of these books, he bought them for you. He’ll be gentle.” They throw a look to Adam at that, who nods vigorously.

“Oh…well, all right.” Their partner hands back the box to Adam, who grins.

“Thanks, Mr. Aziraphale! I’ll be careful!” And like that, he’s off like a shot.

Aziraphale’s partner hums. “Why don’t the rest of you grab the plants? Be careful carrying them in, but do not hold back in giving them a stern yell if you feel the need.” The other three nod and drag the plants out before following Adam inside.

“Thank you, Anthony.” Aziraphale says softly. Anthony hums in satisfaction and plants a kiss on his cheek, before turning their attention to the small crowd at the entrance to the property. They smile, take Aziraphale’s hand, and make their way to the entrance.

“Why hello there!” Aziraphale greets with a sincere smile. “I see you and Shadwell found your way, Tracy!”

“Oh yes!” Tracy chuckles, pulling down the truck bed to reach a box easier. “We also brought some help.”

“Let me help you with that.” Anthony lets go of Aziraphale’s hand and uses their longer arms to reach for the box.

“Thank you…. Anna?”

“Anthony.” They gently correct.

“My mistake. Anthony.”

Aziraphale walks over to Anathema, Newt, and the Youngs. “Hello, Anathema, my dear.” He greets with a warm smile. “It’s good to see you.”

“You as well.” She nods in greeting, before asking. “So, you and Mr. Crowley? South Downs? Tracy was telling me about it.”

He nods, wringing his hands. “Oh yes. We’ve been close for roughly thirty years. And well, after everything that happened…both of us needed to get away from London until everything calmed down.” He glances to where Anthony had gone into the house. “Anthony couldn’t even return to their apartment to grab their things before we left. It was too dangerous.”

“Oh dear lord.” Mrs. Pulsifer murmurs, hand over her heart. “That’s absolutely awful.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “South Downs did both of us a lot of good.”

“I’ll say!” Anthony pipes up, and the group turns to see them saunter up. “What are you all chatting about over here?” Before anyone can answer, they notice the Youngs, and stick their hand out.

“Anthony J. Crowley-Pritchard,” they take Aziraphale’s hand and seem to swell with pride, “and this is my husband, Aziraphale Pritchard-Crowley.”

Mr. Young takes Anthony’s outstretched hand. “Arthur and Diedre Young. We’re Adam’s parents.”

“ _ Oh _ , Adam!” Anthony grins at that. “I had a feeling I knew you somewhere, Mr. Young! Your son has been quite the help moving us in today.”

“That’s…wonderful.”

“I quite agree.” They then nod to Anathema, “Book girl.” They nod to Newt, “Computer boy.” They then turn their attention to Mrs. Pulsifer. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Anthony J. Crowley-Pritchard.”

She smiles. “Mrs. Pulsifer. I’m Newton’s mum. I was helping him move into Anathema’s cottage.”

“Seems like it’s a moving day for everyone, hm?” Anthony smiles at that and claps their hands together. “Speaking of which, Aziraphale and I should get back to work.”

They begin to turn around, only to nearly get barreled over by Adam. Anthony clings to Aziraphale for balance, who chuckles in amusement at his partner being so frazzled.

“Mum, dad!” Adam stops in front of his parents, Dog at his heels. “Can the Crowley-Pritchards come over for dinner?”

“Oh,” Diedre seems surprised, and shoots a glance to the couple. “I don’t know…”

“ _ Please? _ We could also have Anathema and Newt over. Make it a moving-in party!”  All eyes are on the Youngs at that, the couple fumbling for a response.

“I don’t see why not.” Arthur says finally, and Adam cheers. “I suppose Diedre could whip up her Shepherd’s Pie.”

“We can bring refreshments.” Aziraphale offers.

“And we can bring dessert.” Mrs. Pulsifer adds.

“Perfect!” Arthur claps his hands together. “How does six o’clock sound?”

* * *

When the sun sets, the Young’s household is full of sound and color. Most of the guests have already arrived. Newt had carried the cake in for his mother and now follows Mrs. Young to the kitchen to set it down. 

“You must be Newton.” He looks up to Mrs. Young as she speaks. She smiles. “Call me Diedre. Anathema has told me a lot about you.”

“Erm...thank you.” 

“I know both of you helped protect my son almost a year ago. I just want to thank you. I don’t know what would have happened if you two hadn’t been there.”

“Well…” He blushes at the appreciation. “It was mainly Anathema. She did all the hard work.”

She watches him for a long moment, before leaning against the counter. “You really love her, don’t you?”

He nods. “More than anything.” His hand unconsciously drifts to his pocket, where the small box rests. She doesn’t miss that. 

“You can propose whenever you would like.” Newt jumps at her statement. She gives him a knowing look. “I’m sure that she will look back at this evening forever if you do it tonight, though.”

The doorbell rings, and she looks out of the kitchen, before looking back to him. “I better go see. Good luck, though.” And with that, she leaves. He stares after her in shock, before the choruses of  greetings pulls him to the den. 

In the doorway, Aziraphale and Crowley stand, greeting everyone that flocked to them. In Crowley’s hand, they hold a bottle of wine, and Aziraphale holds a non-alcoholic drink for the children. Standing between them is a boy none of them seem to recognize.

“Sorry we’re late!” Crowley announces. “We wanted our godson to come with us.”

“Everyone!” Aziraphale adds, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Warlock Dowling.”

Warlock sticks his hands further in his pockets. Adam immediately approaches. “Hey.” 

Warlock steals a glance up to Adam, so he grins. 

“My name’s Adam. How do you know Aziraphale and Anthony?”

He shrugs. “Anthony was my nanny, and Aziraphale was the gardener for eleven years before they both disappeared. Then, Aziraphale gave me Nanny’s address so I could write.”

“Huh.” Adam’s brow furrows. “That’s weird.”

“You’re weird.” Warlock retorts quickly.

“ _ Warlock _ .” Crowley warns, casting their gaze down at him. 

Adam laughs at that. “Yeah. Come play with my friends and I. We’re playing cowboys and aliens.”

Warlock steals a glance up to Crowley, who nods. He looks back to Adam and nods rapidly. Adam grins toothily, and grabs him by the wrist. “Come on!”

The two boys take off into the house, and Aziraphale laughs at the scene. “It’s so nice to see that Warlock is already making friends on his first visit.”

“Yeah.” Crowley mutters, watching them go. “Lord knows he needs them.”

“Is he really your godson?” The two look to Mr. Young at that. 

Aziraphale immediately nods. “He’s going to start visiting us now that we have somewhere stable to stay. We can let Adam know when he comes over if the two become good friends.”

“Sounds like an excellent idea.” Mr. Young agrees, before holding out his hand. “I don’t know if we’ve formally met…”

Newt walks away as they start to talk, searching the crowd of neighbors. His hand returns to the box in his pocket, thumb running over it for assurance. Tonight was the night, he just knew it. He just needs the perfect opportunity…

“There you are.” He turns to find Anathema behind him, holding two glasses of wine. She hands one to him, and he accepts it, quickly taking a sip. 

“Thank you.” He says softly.

Her brow furrows, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah...yeah. I’m just nervous.” He admits.

She sets her wine glass down. “Why’s that?”

He takes a deep breath.  _ Oh, here we go. _ “I um...I just wanted to let you know. I mean, you may already. Um…” He looks into his wine glass. “I...I love you!” 

The room goes quiet right as he says that. He can feel everyone’s gaze on him, so he keeps staring into his wine. “I’ve loved you for so long! I...I think we were meant to spend the rest of our lives together. Not bound by our ancestors. But just...just us…”

“Uh...Newt?” Aziraphale speaks up. “Look up.”

Newt does, and nearly drops his glass. In front of him, Anathema is on one knee. She looks up at him with pure love in her eyes. 

“I know.” She says. “I love you too. Will you make me the happiest woman in the world? A witch and her witchfinder?”

He feels pressure building behind his eyes. He sets the wine glass and wipes his eyes. 

“Newt?”

He manages a watery grin, and pulls the velvet box out of his pocket. He opens the box to show the glittering engagement ring. 

“...Is that a yes?” She asks, and he nods rapidly.

“Yes, yes, yes.” He repeats. “Yes for the rest of my life.”   


She rises, and grabs his arms before pulling him into a kiss. Everyone around them cheers. The air is light for the first time in years, and all, both young and old, finally have their love and their peace. 

**_“_ ** _ We are the champions, my friends _

_ And we’ll keep on fighting ‘til the end _

_ We are the Champions _

_ We are the Champions! _

_ No time for losers, _

_ ‘Cause we are the Champions!” _

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone! I hope you enjoyed it!  
> Once again, the cover art for this work was made by the wonderful artist Cao! I'd like to thank them for being understanding, flexible, and overall amazing!
> 
> EDIT: For anyone who is interested, I will be writing a spinoff story. It will be primarily about Aziraphale and Crowley between chapters 16 and 17. It's going to include things such as how they escaped from their respective (former) sides, how they recover physically and mentally and will close a lot of subtle arcs that I had to leave incomplete in this story! Hopefully, I can have the first chapter up within the next couple of days!


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